


The Tethered Shadow

by Mymorningteacup



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD - Freeform, M/M, Modern Era, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Vampire Sherlock, Vamplock, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27038593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mymorningteacup/pseuds/Mymorningteacup
Summary: Long life may seem like a blessing to some but it is a curse for others. Having lived throughout the century and now in a new and modern world, it seems time has brought back a piece of Sherlock's past. Is it fate or just coincidence that he should meet John Watson again? But is the universe rarely so lazy? For a vampire, one should hope not.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So glad you could come and read and escape the world for a while. I hope you enjoy reading this just as much fun as I had thinking it up and writing it. I do this purely for fun and my for my own amusement, but any comments are welcome. I have this story posted on other sites as well as I know not everyone is on every site. I do have a Tumblr by the same pen name and sometimes I post things that go along with the stories I have, just to make it more fun.
> 
> Any way enjoy! MyMorningteacup

Chapter 1

It is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you. If one does not feel fear then how does one survive? The body’s natural reaction when it senses its impending doom is to cause the heart rate to accelerate, the blood pressure to rise, and respirations to increase. All of this is to prepare the body for fight or flight. It is all normal and nothing to be ashamed of.

Perhaps that is why it took Sherlock by surprise when he sensed none on the man he had just swept off the street. He had been stalking him silently since the first day he had laid eyes upon the unsuspecting doctor just two weeks prior. Little did Sherlock know that fateful night would change his life forever. When he first caught eye of the doctor Sherlock had been leaving the morgue late one bitter frigid May night. At first the man looked like any other doctor leaving St. Bart’s Hospital. The doctor’s face was sullen and marked evidence of a long and weary shift. He was young, no more than mid-thirties and looked as if he carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. His hair shown in a bright golden hue under the street lights that revealed secrets of silver hiding underneath. He tugged his coat tighter around him as the brisk wind of the unusual cold spring plowed through the city. It was enough to show the hidden tan line that was beginning to fade that went no higher than his wrist.

“Afghanistan.” A ghostly voice brewed from the farthest reaches of Sherlock’s mind. Or was it the howl of the wind that was making him hear things? But why? Why indeed. Now his mind was curious.

In quick strides Sherlock drew near him in an instant, like a moth to a seductive flame. What was it about this man that called forth long forgotten memories as if they were just spoken yesterday? Sherlock watched the doctor as he walked down the pavement seemingly unaware that danger lurked right behind him. Sherlock often used this small talent to make easy observations and deductions while going unseen by others. Simply a shadow in the wake of the living. 

From what he could gather at glance this strange man in some sense was familiar yet different. A duplicate yet not exactly the real McCoy. He was the same height, same build, even favoring his right hand to carry his briefcase rather than his left which was clearly the more dominant. He even had the same name which he read off the dangling I.D. badge clipped to the outside of his bag: Dr. John Watson. Sure it was a fairly common name. No doubt to be reused several times throughout history. But what were the odds? Here Sherlock believed the only thing that never changed was he himself. How wrong he was! Either way Sherlock had decided that this man was to eventually be his guest. Whether he wanted to or not. Now, after much waiting, it had finally come to chance that tonight was this night after careful preparation.

It didn’t take long for John to arouse himself. After all Sherlock did very little harm in order to bring him to the small flat in which he resided. The steel eyes of the doctor drew from the depths of their clouded slumber as they took in the new surroundings he was in. No longer was he fighting the chill, but now was enveloped in warmth from the heat of a fireplace from the far end of the room. Looking around he realized he wasn’t even in his own home but another’s. Two chairs were nestled in front of the hearth, behind them bookcases filled with volumes of various subjects from floor to ceiling, and by the window a large desk littered with papers and manila folders.  
“How did I get here?” John wondered as his hand brushed against his head trying to sooth the mild pain radiating there. “I knew I was tired but I would certainly remember if I went to my own flat. Let alone someone else’s. Wait…no. I didn’t I was on the street and..”

John immediately jumped from the reclined position he had taken on a sofa to a stock straight pose, clutching onto the furniture within an inch of its life. His vision now fixed on, what he assumed was, his captor. Though he didn’t exactly look the part. John’s version of a kidnapper was a burly man, which was no description of this one, as he looked too lean. He certainly had doubts he could’ve hauled him off the street. Perhaps he had help. He appeared tall in the small chair he sat in and had his legs draped one over the other in a relaxed manner. He was posh yet dressed darkly in a suit and a button up shirt to match. He had long pale boney fingers that he had intertwined together across his lap and a face was so still and angular John thought for a second he was a statue. In contrast to his pale features, ebony curls decorated his head with a gloss like sheen. However, what unnerved John the most about the man was his pale eyes. They seemed to penetrate right into one’s soul.

John’s heart roared to life than as he struggled to compose himself. Not through fear as one would normally do in a situation like this, but readying himself to put up a fight.

“You will have to forgive me,” The deep velvet baritone voice of his captor resonated through the room as he began his introduction. “This is not the usual way I receive people into my home. Though I think if you are of open, conscious and sound mind then you may be comfortable in what I have to propose to you.”

“Who the bloody hell are you and what do you want?! Where am I?!” John said through gritted teeth. He eyed his briefcase on the coffee table beside him and made a move to reach for it.

“Don’t bother doctor. Your gun has been confiscated. No need for either of us to have a nasty accident.” The man’s word’s had made John halt in his actions. 

“You kidnapped me off the street!,” He huffed. “Forgive me for wanting to arm myself against a possible psychopath that may intend to kill me!”

“Apology accepted. Besides if I really wanted to kill you I would’ve done so already. Lord, there would be a body to clean up and that in itself is tedious work. In all honesty I mean you no harm.” He said calmly as his hands raised up together to steeple themselves under his chin as though contemplating something only he knew. “All I want is a moment of your time to ask some questions.”

John’s heart began to settle down and the white knuckle bearing he had, had on the sofa eased up.

“Questions?,” John scoffed and an eyebrow lifted in skepticism. “You kidnapped me to ask me questions? Why didn’t you just ask me before all of this? Like a normal person.”

“Well I can assure you the kind of questions I want to ask are not suitable ones to be asking so freely in public. One must learn to be discreet and my questions are in no way shape or form ‘normal’ in the sense.”

John’s features softened, but there was still a storm of confusion that swirled around him.  
“I have some questions myself if you don't mind. If you didn’t kidnap me to harm me then what do you want? I know nothing about you, who you are or where I am. And I’m not answering anything until you tell me.”

“Of course, where are my manners? My name is Sherlock Holmes and you are currently at 221B Baker St. And as for what I want that is simple. I am in need of a flatmate and you will do perfectly.”

Both of John’s eyebrows rose at his confession and a nervous grin crept onto his face. 

“A flatmate? You brought me all the way here because you needed a flatmate? Personally I don't see what is so abnormal about asking someone about a flat share. On the street. In public. Though I will say I do cross the line at being kidnapped by a potential flatmate. Any way I already have a flat so I hate to burst your bubble. Now, if I can have my gun back, I think I will be going. I’ve been here longer than I care to.”

Sherlock’s head tilted slightly to the side as he gave off an eerie smile of his own. John thought it looked too unnatural on his face as though the man didn’t smile too often.

“Is that why you have been researching more affordable flats in the central London area despite your hospital job and army pension? Can you really live there even knowing you scrap by, living paycheck to paycheck? Please, stay awhile, talk. I know you are not scheduled for work tomorrow and there is no need for you to rush off. Trust me Dr. Watson. I will make this worth your while.”

This time John’s body stilled and the wavering perfume of fear was beginning to make itself known in sweat and perspiration. John was afraid.

“Have you been spying on me? Did you follow me home? God are you a spy?!”

“Oh no, much more than that. I know quite a bit about you. I know you are a military man invalid from war. You haven’t been home long. I would say only a couple of months from the way your tan has barely faded and your hair recently started to grow out. The phone I inspected in your coat pocket is no cheap gadget. The man sitting here before me would not waste money on an expensive item if he is strapped for cash. It must be borrowed. So a doctor would lives in the costliest places in London, short on finances, surviving barely on an army pension turns down a flatmate? No offense, but if I was in your shoes I would take the help where I could get it.”

Sherlock watched as John’s face turned from borderline paranoid panic to pure awe. He was amused himself of his expression. Often, more than often, the people he encountered were put off by his bold statements. Leaning toward more the irritated side to the point where they could easily tell him to ‘fuck off’ in this day in age. However, John’s face held the truth to his inner most thoughts like an open book.

“Bloody hell that was…amazing. You sure you’re not a spy or something?” John breathed out.

“No. I’m a consulting detective with a touch of extra qualities so to speak.”

This time a smile of anxious curiosity spread across John’s lips.

“Like what?”

Sherlock rested his hands on the arms of the chair and looked down at the now interesting floor below him. To John he seemed nervous as if he was trying to ready himself to divulge a horrible secret. Sherlock took a steady breath and willed his eyes to look at John once more. Now with more will power and determination.

“Well, you see, this is part of the conversation that isn’t suitable for public ears and may put you off. I…am a vampire.”

The detective had said it with such a calm demeanor and with such purpose that John latched onto his every word. Until he repeated what the man had just said in his mind. A…vampire? John’s brows furrowed and could see that this man meant every word he said. There was no lingering joke held over him that he was going to suddenly start laughing or cut up and say he was teasing.

“Right. Last I remember vampires don’t exist,” John treaded his words carefully. “I could recommend a psych consult if you need help. Don’t get me wrong that was brilliant what you just did, but if you are having issues…” He trailed off.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“No, Dr. Watson, I am not having psychological issues, or a crisis or whatever people are calling it these days. Been there and done that a long time ago. You are a medical man. Examine me yourself if you like. In fact I encourage it.” He extended his arms out in hopes to clear up any perceived notion John was now cooking up in his head to try and normalize the current state of affairs.

Skepticism was now radiating off the doctor. He was torn on wanting to be cautious of a potential dangerous delusional man yet almost itching to prove him wrong. That this way of thinking and admitting he was some dangerous fictional creature was all in his head. John reached over to his briefcase and retrieved his stethoscope and with only slight hesitancy he approached his captor. He set about his examination as he would with any other patient. Placing the diaphragm of the stethoscope over the fifth intercostal space of the man’s chest he listened through the eartips.

There should’ve been a thrum of a heartbeat. The lull of lub and dubs of the organ. The swishing of blood that was the driving force of life. But no matter how many times he adjusted his instrument or listened to a different section of the man’s body, it was silent. There was no airy intake of drawn breath to fill the lungs or and an exhale escaping them. In fact he was so engrossed in his concentration he had failed to notice that there was no rise or fall of the man’s chest cavity. The only indication that he truly wasn’t breathing at all. 

John’s eyes widened in realization and flicked up to the man’s face who in return was observing him in interest, watching his every move. John took his stethoscope out of his ears and draped the device around his neck. Determined he wasn’t completely losing his mind this night, he grasped the man’s right wrist. It had an unnatural coldness to it that he noted mentally and pressed two fingers into the inner portion; glancing down at his own watch. It wasn’t the absence of the radial pulse that made John loose his grip, but in fact it was the time he read.  
11:35pm.

He distinctly remembered leaving work at 11:20pm. How long was he out before he awoke here? He had been talking with this man, to him, it felt like no more than ten minutes. If that was indeed the case, how had his captor get him from St. Bart’s to Baker St in no less than five minutes? 

“What are your findings doctor? Am I in perfect gleaming health or do you need a second opinion?” Sherlock’s voice jostled John from his thoughts which made him jump slightly and take a step back.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary. However, I think with your absence of pulse, lack of oxygen intake, and no findings of normal sinus rhythm I would say you are, without a doubt, quite dead.”

Sherlock smiled up into John’s disturbed face and let out a light laugh.

“Glad to see you still have a sense of humor left after your diagnosis. And I am quite glad nothing has changed for me since my demise.”

John swallowed thick and ran a hand over his forehead nervously. 

“Speaking to one who feels like they are suddenly about to become this evenings dinner.”

Sherlock waived a hand of indifference at John’s comment and adjusted his suit jacket.

“Rest assured I know exactly what that feels like. To feel concreted to the earth in paralyzing fear, unable to move, unable to think of what to do next because you don’t know which breath will be your last. I did not bring you here to do that to you. I brought you here to ask you to be my flatmate. Ease the burden of your everyday life. All I ask is an exchange.”

John’s thoughts screeched to a blinding halt and pupils widened a fraction. An exchange? Of what? In any other normal circumstance the exchange for rent would be money. But this wasn’t any normal situation. He was dealing with a man, a very dead man. A dead man that was a vampire. Of course how stupid could he be! 

“You mean live here and…in exchange I…” His voice faltered as his hand drifted over his wrist.

He most likely didn’t want money. Why would he need it if he was wanting to ‘relieve’ John of finance burden? He must want blood instead. His blood in leu of rent. Why else would he want to ‘relieve’ him of any financial burden? Why hunt for your food if you could have a live in snack? God, he would have to conceal bite marks, treat himself for blood loss, not to mention it would literally drain him.

It was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised at the misinterpreted offer. His eyes flicked from the doctor’s gesture to his face.

“Heaven’s no! Even as a vampire I do have morals. I mean for you to supply me with blood from the hospital as rent payment.”

“Oh.” John let out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. His shoulders eased up from the tension he had built up for himself. Another thought occurred to him. If he was a detective and a vampire, why not hunt the criminals? Then again did he really want to ask? Let alone how…no. A snorted laugh came from him unexpectedly.

“What?” asked Sherlock.

“It just seems like an oxymoron to me. You being a vampire and a detective. How do you handle crime scenes with the blood and all?”

“Years of patience and practice. Now what have you to say on my offer?”

John was dumbfounded for a moment. It would be risking his career stealing blood from the hospital. Though the prospect of living rent free would be easier on his wallet. But what would happen if he got caught? More or less what would happen if he didn’t bring anything home?

“I can tell you are thinking too loudly. A moral crisis no doubt. Either you are accepting or refusing? Which is it?” Sherlock interjected again.

“What would you do? If I did refuse?”

“Considering the weight of your words I see you are concerned for your well being. And rightly so. Any man would be an idiot if he did not think of his well being before considering my offer. If you were to refuse you are free to go home and live out the rest of your days without any interference from me.”

John nodded and mulled over his words.

“And if I do agree…blood is your only requirement for rent?”

“Depending on what market you sell blood it can run the average cost of today’s rent with two or three pints. I say its a fair trade.”

John brushed a hand through his hair in contemplation.

“How often do you need it?”

“Usually once a week or a week and a half. A fortnight is the absolute longest I can go without.”

John was nearly convinced that this whole conversation was taking place in his mind in a dream like fashion. This was insane. Absolutely insane, but it was reality. Here this corpse of a man was promising something only people would only think up in macabre stories. A vampire taking on a mortal to live with them in hopes of giving them the world. Deep down though John knew not only his job, but his life, would be at constant stake. Years of practice and patience against bloodlust or whatever he called it could easily go down the toilet. In the darkness of John’s mind he couldn’t help but wonder what would finally set him off, make him crack in order to break his abstinence.

“I’m…I’m sorry. The offer is tempting, truly. A very nice gesture and I can see you thought it all out, but maybe someone else could help you.” John backed away and grabbed his briefcase off the coffee table in a hurry. His mind forgetting about his confiscated weapon.

If Sherlock’s heart could still beat he would’ve felt something akin to panic that his plan was going south. He hadn’t anticipated this outcome. He thought his plan had been flawless to the ’T’, but once again there had been an element of surprise from his guest. And he should’ve known better. He watched as the doctor made his hasty retreat towards the door and he scanned him quickly to think of something, anything to make him stay.

“I know by your left hand you don’t want to go.” Sherlock blurted out.

John came to an abrupt stop as he neared the landing of the stairs and turned to face him again. This time his face was tense. A secret nerve had been struck.

“My what?” John asked in a authoritative voice. This was no longer the kind meek doctor. The solider had come out to play.

In a swift motion Sherlock was in front of him in an instant. The fluid movement made John flinch at the fact he hadn’t seen the man move from his chair to stand before him. Just more proof that this man was supernatural indeed.

“Your left hand. Show me.” Sherlock commanded as he held out his own, waiting for John to submit to his request.

With caution he put his hand in the vampire’s. The shock of contact between warm and cold was instantaneous. Sherlock carefully turned the doctor’s hand this way and that way in keen interest as if he was looking for something.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks its stress. Fire her. She has it the wrong way around. You are under stress right now and your hand is perfectly still. You’re not haunted by the war. You miss it. It’s the A&E that gives you the coverage you need. Its the thrill.”

John quickly withdrew his hand.

“How? How the hell did you know that? I have never talked to my therapist not once about the war let alone…this.” He gestured to his hand.

“I noticed it after your shift tonight,” Sherlock admitted. “The adrenaline high of the A&E was wearing off and when you left it started acting up again. Along with a suppressed psychosomatic limp. You often flex your hand either out of habit or there is underlying nerve damage at your shoulder. You are trying to regain feeling. Certain medications could help with sensation and reduce pain flare ups yet you forego to use them. Perhaps due to their side effects which would cause you to fall out of practice in your line of work. The limp is a simple fix. Working in a trauma unit you are constantly on your feet and can work it out by consistency. So the A&E has been both your cover up and your medication in a sense.”

John stood in awe again at the deduction this man had brought forth from the deepest darkest crevice he had buried.

“Damn,” John blinked back his stupor. “Maybe I should fire her. God this is crazy. Absolutely ridiculous! You are right though, this offer I mean, it would be stupid to refuse but you have to know I would be taking a giant risk. Seriously if anyone found out..”

“No one will find out. I promise.”

John sighed and dropped his gaze.

“If I say yes…I have one condition.”

“Yes?” Sherlock probed.

“If you ever catch yourself failing to stay away from or to try and…drink…from me, will you let me know?”

“Of course,” Sherlock could hear this uneasiness in John’s voice. “You don’t even have to interact with me if you so choose. All I require is blood. Nothing more.”

John nodded. 

“Alright then. Maybe not as crazy as invading Afghanistan, but whatever. Hell we already know the worsts about each other.”

“As potential flatmates should.” 

“Afghanistan.” The ghostly whisper played in Sherlock’s mind once again. He knew then that this wasn’t chance. That the universe indeed was not lazy. That this was not coincidence. Or maybe he was just being too hopeful.

“Very well. Then welcome home Dr. Watson.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has some conflicting feelings as he stays the first night with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovelies! So happy to get another chapter up and going and glad there are a few of you out there enjoying it! I know I am along the way as I write and am having as much fun sharing it. As always I am just doing this for fun and because it is a hobby of mine but feel free to comment if you like! I will see you all next time as I am already working on chapter three as we speak.
> 
> Toodles!

John knew soldiers that were once prisoners of war. He had heard of their nightmares when he treated them for malnutrition and the torture they endured. Things they dared not even speak of even though the evidence was written upon their bodies like a book to be freely read. Some would go on to recover while other’s had their spirits permanently broken to forever relive the horrors for the rest of their lives. He now wished to God he had never heard their stories now. Though he had consented to move in, he felt a large heaviness in his gut, a feeling of sudden helplessness.

“You look exhausted,” said Sherlock. “Why don’t you stay the night here.”

John did not want to tip him off that he felt uneasy at his request, but all of a sudden he had the urge to get away. However, the way the man loomed over him on the landing, he knew it would not be a good idea. The quickness of his movements was proof well enough that Sherlock could easily overtake him. Besides, if he did leave, who was to say the vampire would follow him home to make sure he would come back? As much as he wanted to believe that this arrangement was all a simple solution; John had no inkling that what he said was true and he would turn and harm him. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was persisting to make good on his word or get him to stay so John wouldn’t change his mind.

“That’s great and all, but I have no clothes here or anything else for that matter. It’s all at my flat.”

Sherlock’s head nodded to the stairway to the floor above.

“There is a room upstairs already furnished and fully stocked in whatever you need.”

John was taken aback by the offer and made a wary eye to the steps leading up to the extra room. So, he was prepared for him. Better yet what was it in the room that was ‘furnished and stocked’? He tried pushing back images of gruesome devices and bondage that leapt forward in his mind, but he couldn’t help it. That was a vampire’s thing wasn’t it? Blood and sex? At least it was in cheesy films. But what if he simply just had a spare room? A guest room like any other house if one were to expect company.

“Are you sure you weren’t doing more than just…watching me for the past two weeks? Did you ever go into my flat?”

“What flat?” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “I had the liberty of moving in your things while you was at work today and your lease terminated.”

John’s eyes widened and his briefcase slipped from his grasp onto the floor.

“Wait…What? How did you manage that?! They need notice and…”

“They did. Two weeks ago.” Sherlock said frankly.

“You mean you did it…two weeks ago? Two weeks?!”

“Yes.”

John ran his hands roughly down his face at the dawning of this new living situation. Not only had he prepared to have him stay, he bloody well planned it all out and brilliantly at that. The mere audacity! The fact he had made such a decision before discussing it with him first! He peered back at the vampire who, in all of this, was as calm as a dormant tide while the heat of the desert was beginning to boil under John’s skin.

“Just last week I decided to look at a new flat. Yesterday I had it narrowed down to three. And you knew all of this because you decided I was going to be your new flat mate, _today_? Because you knew I would say yes to your arrangement? Decided all of this _two_ weeks ago? How the hell did you know this?!”

“I believe I have already shown you my skills before not a half hour ago. Or has the haze of your ‘kidnapping’, as you so eloquently put it, still have a hold on you?”

Sherlock had a point. His excellent deduction methods had laid out his life before him, rooting down to his deepest secrets. John had to give him that. He was a master of his profession, one he carried with the highest regard and one could see the pride gleaming in his eyes as he performed his work. He had no idea how in depth his skills were, but if John had to guess he had it down to a craft. This man didn’t merely play a guessing game to see if John would become his flat mate. He knew he would. He strategized it the moment he laid eyes on him to probably even down to the very conversation they were having now.

“I’m not even sure if I want to know.” John dropped the subject.

“Good. Makes for unnecessary chit chat.” He picked up John’s briefcase and put it back in the doctor’s hands. “Now, come in.” Sherlock re-entered the flat, leaving John to stand there.

There was no force or beckoning call to pull John back into the flat. Sherlock had left it up to him to choose to come back in. Neither had he physically manipulated him. He was giving him an ultimatum. Either John could come in and take advantage of his now new room or he could freely make a run for it even if he had nowhere to go. With a sigh, John chose the latter of the two options and went back in.

Sherlock seemed to have busied himself resuming whatever work on the computer he had been doing prior to his meeting with John. For a brief moment he didn’t look like a demon who couldn’t be trusted, but like any other human doing regular human things. Sherlock gave him a quick glance before returning his gaze back to the screen.

“Before you settle in there is a few conditions I would like to discuss with you.”

John had barely shrugged off his coat when he had heard Sherlock’s newest announcement.

“There’s more? I thought we laid out all the terms and conditions.”

“That is for our own private affairs. I am purely speaking within the flat itself.”

“Oh?”

“I am a particular man. A man set in his ways and have been for quite some time and I am not fond of repeating myself.” This time Sherlock’s eyes flashed back to John, the computer lighting making his pale features luminous. “So please, heed my words with care and take them to heart. If you do it will make both of us living here much easier.”

John’s feet felt planted to the floor with his stare as he bore into him. He felt urges to look away but try as he might, he couldn’t leave his face. He had been taught to be still and at attention when the time needed in the military and this felt like one of those moments.

“I do not care how you live your life or who you choose to spend your time with, but for all intense and purposes, me being a vampire should be kept silent as the grave. And any carousing of the fairer sex should probably be kept at their place of residence.”

“No dates back to the flat and don’t tell anyone your a vampire. Actually those aren’t too hard to think of.”

“That may be so. But my next one may strike you as odd or strain your curiosity too much, but nevertheless it is my most important rule. You should, under no circumstance, enter my bedroom, for whatever reason. If you need me simply knock on my door and I will come out, but do _not_ enter.”

John couldn’t help but snigger and before he could control his mouth and realize who and what he was speaking to; let out the first thing that popped into his mind.

“What? Got a coffin in there?”

In that instance the staring spell was broken as Sherlock’s frame pulled back at John’s words. His face was no longer cold or indifferent, but something akin to remembering a memory one wants to readily forget because it brings them sorrow. His gaze turned away from John and back to his computer.

“There is a washroom down the hall from the kitchen, on your left. I laid out some towels and a change of clothes for you if you would like to freshen up before bed. The tub in there is deep. A hot bath would help your tired muscles.”

Guilt crept up in John and thought perhaps he approached on a sensitive topic. After all, how does one joke and talk to one who is already dead without offending them? What exactly was the social etiquette? Deciding that it was best to keep his mouth shut instead of inserting his foot again he muttered a quick gratitude and made his way to the bathroom. He found it with ease, though noticed at the end of the hallway was another door. The dark wooden structure hung on its hinges in a sinister manner the way no light played upon its frame. Shadows clung to it like cobwebs and the door itself was closed tightly as if it was a jail cell.

“ _Must be his_ ,” John thought “ _And I have absolutely no desire to go in. He can rest assured of that_.”

He entered the bathroom and just like Sherlock had said there was a deep white porcelain tub that looked every bit inviting. Perhaps he was right. A hot bath would do to let him soak out his stress. John closed the door and locked it. He wasn’t sure what defense it would have for him, but at the moment he chose not to dwell on it. He set his briefcase down by a lone chair by the tub that had the towels and, to his surprise, his own night clothes resting upon it. He shook his head and turned on the faucet of the tub, letting it fill of steaming hot water as he stripped down. And again Sherlock was right. The water was divine on his aching body as he sank down into the tub and little by little the feeling that was once heavy in his gut was soothing away. Although he made a careful choice to sit facing the door, just as a precautionary. He didn’t want to let his guard down at such a vulnerable time.

In all of less than an hour John had been pulled off the street and rendered unconscious, brought to a stranger’s home, performed a medical exam on a vampire, and now was moving in. All to find out he had been prepping up for him, waiting for the right time to take action, even moving him out of his own flat.

The steam of the water brought him out of his thoughts as his eyes drifted over to the niche in the wall to the side of the tub and found a familiar bar of soap and shampoo. The scents couldn’t be mistaken. They were his own necessities. Now that he was aware of this new fact his eyes darted up to the sink and sure enough nestled in a cup was his toothbrush and toothpaste.

“ _The bastard thought of everything_.” John thought to himself bitterly. “ _He’s gone ahead and already put my things away._ ”

In some twisted point of view he could tell Sherlock was giving him his own space. He was trying to put forth a sense of normalcy, show him that this too was his home and he lived here now. To put on an air that everything was okay. But was any of it _really_ okay?

There was no point in arguing with Sherlock about how he had just packed up his life and brought his things here. He agreed to this and now here he was. Suddenly the warmth of the bath no longer felt inviting but more of just another psychological motive on Sherlock’s part. Take a warm bath, relax, and welcome to your new home. That’s all this screamed. Calm your victim. Make them more compliant.

He pulled the plug of the drain and got out of the delicious embrace of the water. He dried off quickly, put on his pajamas, gathered up his belongings and made his way out of the bathroom. Sherlock was still where he had left him and John had no intentions of disturbing him and made right for the stair case.

“Sleep well.” Sherlock called.

John looked over his shoulder to the attention he was now receiving from him.

“I hope.” John said softly.

“I won’t bother you if that’s what you are worried about. I’m quite busy tonight and I promise you won’t hear a peep out of me.”

John rigidly nodded.

“If you say so.”

He proceeded his way up the stairs to his new room, securing the door once more with the lock of the doorknob. In some strange sense he felt like he was safe as he backed away from the door with uncertainty. He quickly scanned the room and found it quite spacious. Once again, true to the vampire’s word it was already set up and furnished with all of his belongings. A dresser and the closet were filled with his clothes, a floor mirror sat in a corner, and his old army trunk was at the foot of the bed. By the window, draped in moonlight was his bed neatly made and ready to be slept in. In quick mental thought he went and checked the window finding it locked.

He wasn’t taking any chances tonight. If this was to be his room then he damn well wanted the necessary protection. He couldn’t help but curse himself mentally for not taking more interest in religion. He owned no Bible or cross for that matter. He highly doubted a vampire was stocked up on garlic of any kind. No point of going back downstairs to the kitchen and snooping. Sitting on his bed he felt a lump rise in his throat and forced it back down. Never had he felt so defenseless, helpless, clueless even. At least not since Afghanistan. All he had to go on to ensure he slept peacefully was the vampire’s word and he wasn’t sure how much weight his words actually held. So far he hadn’t lied to him, he had been up front and honest, but he had also kept his own secrets from John.

Panic raced through him like a bucket of cold ice water as it dawned on him.

“ _He still has my gun. He never gave it back.”_

John’s eyes darted to and fro. Now he truly was defenseless. With no way out, no home to return to, no weapon and a vampire lurking downstairs, what was he to do? His eyes drifted over to the end table by his bed and noticed a small note. Picking it up, on it was fine scrawled out cursive that had to have been made by delicate hand. The strokes of the handwriting looked so out of date he knew it could only have to belonged to Sherlock.

**_In the drawer_ **

John’s brows furrowed in confusion at the vague message. Carefully opening up the drawer of the table laid his gun. Relief flooded him as he picked it up and finding it loaded, ready and armed. It surprised him in some ways to find it just how it was and not loaded so Sherlock would have the upper hand. But as the vampire had said, even he had morals and even he would think someone an idiot if they did not think of their well being first while with him. He had to have taken his gun for something more than the excuse of John’s safety. Perhaps his own. Was there something about John’s gun that could possibly harm Sherlock or even the bullets? Bullets contain no silver, so that was out of his theory. Whatever the matter was he left it with John, armed, and even let him know its location. That in itself gave John enough motion to hide it under his pillow just for good measure.

Pulling back the covers he buried himself down into the sheets. A strange thought then came to him. He had about six hours till sunrise. That legend had to be true. If that was the case Sherlock would have no choice but find a dark place and stay till it was night once more. He wouldn’t have to deal with him in the morning. He would be free to go and do as he pleased.

Though first things first. He would have to make it through the night.

The morning came stead fast for John. The rays of sunlight brought mind a realization of hope to him. He had made it through the night. In a sense of urgency he bounded out of his bed and made towards the full length mirror by his closet door. He checked his neck, arms, wrists, and the plains of his body. Every inch of skin he inspected for any sign of a bite. None was found. He breathed out a sigh of relief and went to the window to find it still locked. Even his door. All was as Sherlock had said. He hadn’t bothered him. At least he was going to think that way. He hoped that the vampire didn’t have some key to his room where he could come and go as he pleased. Or was that superstition now null and void since now John was the one who occupied and lived in the room? Would Sherlock be forced to be an uninvited guest in a part of his own home until John gave the word to let him in?

Now that it was morning it meant Sherlock had to be asleep, stove away somewhere hiding in the darkness. John could move about freely in his new flat. He unlocked his door and carefully made his way down the stairs, trying to be easy on the creaking boards. He reached the bottom of the landing and saw that the door of the sitting room was open. Just like he suspected this level of the flat was quiet with no hints of life bustling about. Suspicions so far proving to be correct.

The sitting room had a wave of renewed life within it now. Darkness no longer bathed in every corner and crevice. Strange commodities of dead things framed behind glass would’ve gave the cold chill of dread to any if it were still night. However, in the lit room they no longer held such power. Now they were scientific fascinations decorating the mantle of the fireplace and shelves for all to see. Beetles, bats, botany of mushrooms and other fauna. They were life and death together in harmony. Glass jars and chemistry materials lined shelves in a display cabinet along with other knickknacks that even piqued John’s interest as he looked at them all. This no longer felt like the den of a vampire, but a flat of a detective who had an interest in the mechanics of life and science. He was about to go into the kitchen when he heard the shuffle of feet and turned to meet the figure of his new flatmate.

“Good morning.” The vampire popped out of the kitchen to greet John who was startled out of his skin, not expecting him to still be awake. His appearance seemingly had transformed over night. No longer did he look like walking corpse with ivory skin and tired eyes. The sun caressed his skin and gave it a youthful glow. Pale dusk lips were now rosy. Dark hallow eyes now shown in radiance. He had also changed his clothes to a more brighter display of a lilac button up dress shirt and black trousers. Even a silk maroon robe adorned him. The only theory John could come up with to Sherlock looking more alive was that he had to have done something recently. A meal. He did say he was going to be ‘busy’ last night.

“Oh…uh, good morning.” John’s eyes flitted to the open drapes that was letting in full scales of light into the room and back to Sherlock. Apart from his shocking metamorphosis John was wondering how he wasn’t bursting into flames. Obviously he had a lot to learn about what was fiction and what was real regarding the detective’s unique lifestyle.

A kind smile graced Sherlock’s lips that looked more natural today instead of the strained one from last night.

“I trust you slept well?” he asked as he turned away from John and back into the kitchen, flipping on the kettle on the counter.

“Yeah…yeah I did. Not too bad.”

“Splendid. I have a good English breakfast for you here on the table. Eggs, beans, toast, sausage. You know, the works. I know you must be hungry.”

Making a glance towards the table there sat a singular setting of the steaming hot breakfast and condiments to compliment it. The act struck a chord in John’s heart and once again he was feeling guilt. Here he had been thinking the worst of him and the vampire had actually put forth the effort to make some sort of peace offering. He stepped in and took a seat at the table, watching as Sherlock bustled around the tiny kitchen in preparation for the morning tea.

“How?” John asked.

“Hmm?” Sherlock turned to meet his confused expression.

“You cook? Don’t take this the wrong way it just kinda of surprises me. I wouldn’t think you need much use or need for cooking when you are…well,” John cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is I wouldn’t think you would need the skill if you don’t ever have any company.”

“Au contraire. Quite the opposite. As a detective I get all kinds of company. There are plenty of people in need of my services.”

“So you do cook?” He picked up his fork, taking the first bite of food.

“Oh no, I don’t cook. Set too many fires to this damnable place that I have been banned from even touching an oven. Mrs. Hudson cooked your breakfast.” He said as matter of fact as though it was given knowledge.

John swallowed.

“Mrs. Hudson? Who’s Mrs. Hudson? Is she a one too?”

“No, she is no vampire. In our respective roles she is playing as my landlady. When in truth she is my housekeeper. She lives on the floor below.”

“And she knows you’re..” John trailed off.

“Yes.”

“And she’s ok with it?”

“I believe so. She seems content.”

John thought this was interesting. He wasn’t the only human living in the building. Why didn’t Sherlock tell him this last night? It certainly would’ve put his mind more at ease if he knew he wasn’t alone. Or perhaps it was more of a matter of Sherlock wanting John to trust him with his life that he had so maliciously set out to change.

“So what is your deal with her?” He continued on with his breakfast.

“No rent if she could be my housekeeper,” Sherlock paused as he poured tea into a RAMC mug he had plucked out of the cabinet. Another thing of John’s that he had settled in under his nose. “Now I may not know how to cook, but I do know how to make a proper cup of tea.”

John watched him with interest. He had saw his skills last night and was curious to put them to the test again. There would be no way Sherlock could narrow down how someone took their tea and wondered if he could stump him.

“And I’m supposing you know how I take it too?”

“Of course, Watson. Earl Grey, no sugar, and a splash of milk to taste.” The answer rolling off his tongue as if he knew it all along. John’s mouth gaped at him slightly as he set the mug down beside his plate and seated himself across the table.

“How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess.” he shrugged.

The subtle clack of heels came from the stairs and soon a elderly woman entered the kitchen. She was dressed in a floral blouse and skirt and tucked in her hand was a newspaper.

“The paper for you dear.” She handed it over to Sherlock and he took it graciously.

“Ah, thank you. Mrs Hudson this is Dr. John Watson. Doctor, Mrs. Hudson.” He introduced them both as he set about unfolding his newspaper to his desired page.

John reached out a hand and shook hers briefly.

“Nice to meet you. Breakfast is lovely by the way.”

“Oh, thank you!,” Her face lit up at the mentioning of her cooking. “But just this once. I’m not your housekeeper.”

“She takes her acting role very seriously.” Sherlock piped in not bothering to look at either one of them.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and dropped her bubbly face.

“Someone has to with all the sorts you get to the flat and your strange experiments.” She remarked giving him a sideways glare before returning back to John. “I’m going to the market. Is there anything I can pick up for you?”

Her kind disposition made her demeanor seem more like a mother hen looking after him. And she seemed not to be put off or pay no mind that Sherlock was a vampire and talked to him as she saw fit. Fussing about the lifestyle, more namely the profession, he led. John instantly took a liking to her. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from her about this mysterious man.

“I trust whatever you get. Anything would be great.”

“Very well. I’ll be back in a few. Nice meeting you dear.” She left out the kitchen door and made down the stairs. “But like I said, just this once!”

“Not the housekeeper.” John smiled as he mumbled her little saying under his breath and continued with his breakfast. “How long has she lived here?” He asked Sherlock.

“A few decades now since she has returned to England from Florida. Helped her with her husband’s death penalty.”

John blinked up in surprise.

“You helped her husband get off?”

“Definitely not. I ensured it.”

John took a quick drink of his tea so he wouldn’t choke on the information he had just received. Ensuring death. Sounded like a very vampire thing to say. Hopefully there had to be more to the story than what Sherlock let on. Did Mrs. Hudson, knowing what Sherlock was, have her husband off’d? Maybe she was now living here at Baker Street because she was indebted to him?

“Please John don’t be dull. I can practically hear the grinding gears of your thoughts. No, I didn’t kill him. He was abusing and exploiting her. She said she would give me all the information on her husband’s drug cartel if she could live out the rest of her life peacefully. And now she does under my employment.” He folded back up his newspaper to its original state and set it on the table.

“Good God.” The words escaped from John’s lips.

He was protecting her. She lived here with no debts, no obligations to him if all she did was a little cleaning. And she lived, however she wished, downstairs in her little flat and he let her fuss over him. It was almost endearing. So what did he see in him? What was so special about him that he uprooted him in just two weeks and moved him right here into his flat.

Sherlock arose from his chair and slid off his robe, opting for his suit jacket that was draped over his desk chair.

“I must be off as well. The Yard wants me to take a look at a frozen waiter. Make yourself at home and don’t wait up on me. And remember John, under no circumstances should you enter my room. I will know if you have even touched the door.”

Sherlock reappeared by the kitchen entrance again. This time in a long black coat and blue scarf draped around his neck.

“What…what happens if I do?” John treaded cautiously, all cheerfulness from their previous conversations had completely vanished.

“Let’s not dwell on darker thoughts shall we? It will give us both a peace of mind.” With that Sherlock turned on his heel and made his way down the stairs.

“ _Fuck. He’s always fucking right. Now I want to know._ ” He thought as he looked down the hall to the siren calling door. Sure he had no notion of wanting to go in. That was invading privacy. But the fact he was warning him, heavily warning him, had to mean something. What skeletons was he keeping in his room? Especially if John was threatened with pain of death.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes his first crime scene with Sherlock. And Sherlock realizes this is more than an ordinary crime scene and is going to have to go into his mind palace to seek answers he has long since buried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it has taken me a hot minute to update! I have been non-stop working at my job and its been crazy. The only times I have for writing are in the middle of the night and sometimes I have productive nights and others not so much. But without further ado here is chapter 3. It took me awhile to figure out how I wanted to piece this together, but if some things sound odd it will because they will be explained and/or revealed in later chapters.

The first weekend with Sherlock had flew by and went without a hitch. John saw very little of him during the day as he was out procuring evidence for one of his cases and when he returned home he kept to himself, engrossed in his work. He paid John no mind whatsoever and John stayed within his own parameters. As Sherlock had said he was under no obligation to interact with him if he so chose. When the weekend came to a close and the new work week crept up, John really felt no different than if he was living at his previous flat. He was surprised in himself that he transitioned and was taking this as well as he was, but so far the vampire had done nothing to harm him and actually paid him little attention. Maybe he was being paranoid for nothing. 

Though it didn’t stop John from being curious about his new flat mate. He defied certain vampire myths which now nagged in the back of his mind wondering what was true and what was not. Were there more vampires like him roaming around the city completely unnoticed and unaware by everyday people? Or was he a rare commodity? From what he could gather in his own observations the sunlight seemingly had no effect on him. He could move silently and swiftly if he wanted to, but only did so on occasions about the flat. Blood was what gave him his renewed youthful appearance but not once had John seen him consume it. In ways he was grateful, but secretly he was finding himself fascinated in seeing Sherlock’s true dark being. He mulled over all these things his entire shift.

When he returned home later that evening he had found Sherlock perched at the kitchen table over a microscope. His full focus was absorbed into studying the slide that was clipped underneath the lens. He passed around him and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. The cold spring air still hadn’t shifted to warmer weather just yet and was causing his shoulder to ache tonight with a vengeance. He knew if he didn’t take something for it now he was going to have a terrible nights sleep. 

“Your adrenaline is wearing down.” stated Sherlock as he switched out his slides. “Hmm, barely ten minutes since arriving home. You sure you don’t need more than the trauma unit to keep you up?”

“The paracetamol will kick in soon. I might even have a hot shower.” John leaned back against the counter, glass in hand as he watched the detective turn the knobs of his microscope ever so slowly.

“Of course, of course. Don’t let me get in the way of your health. I just thought…” Sherlock’s eyes drifted away in thought for the briefest of seconds. However, before he could finish his sentence they returned back to the eye piece of his microscope to the task at hand. “…oh never mind.”

Him? Concerned about his health? The thought of a vampire concerned about his health made him somewhat perturbed. John had figured the only reason Sherlock would only care about his well being was that he essentially was playing the part as his blood mule. 

“What?” John asked, his interest now piqued.

“Oh it’s nothing.” Sherlock gave a mere shrug of his shoulders.

“Tell me.”

Sherlock drew back from the microscope and let out a sigh.

“If you insist. I have been called by Lestrade to a crime scene. You being a medical man I could use your assistance.”

“Really?,” John mused. “Me assist you? I doubt you would need me.”

Sherlock turned in his chair to face him fully, brows bunched together.

“How so?”

“What, you’re probably hundreds of years old. You must have more medical knowledge than all of Bart’s Hospital put together and then some.”

“That would be where you are wrong. I have knowledge, yes, but I can only put so much knowledge into my mind palace before it is overflowing and about to burst at the seams. I have to clean it out every once and awhile. It’s easier if I already have someone who is with the current times on hand and I can easily pick their brain. You would be most useful.”

John’s eyebrows rose.

“Pick my brain? So I’m going to be your walking talking medical Wikipedia, is that it?”

“Putting it in that light sounds quite impersonal and depressing. I could say you will be my colleague.”

A colleague? He had went from stranger, to flatmate and now a colleague in just three days. How did this happen? As far as John knew they were going to lead separate lives, he would pay his way in the blood that the vampire required and that would be that. This unexpected shift caught him off guard. He had a hard time believing that he would actually need his help, but his excuse seemed genuine. He supposed as long as he was helping and not getting in the way or possibly any confrontation, he could go. 

“Alright, I suppose.”

A smile lit up on Sherlock’s face and he all but jumped out of his chair to go get his long dark coat.

“Good! Your hat and boots. We have about an hour’s drive outside the city.”

“Hat and boots? Did I miss something?”

Sherlock paused in his movements before he could tie his scarf and turned back to John with a face of subtle panic. 

“Am I going to war?” John added as his lip curled into a grin.

Sherlock blinked once. The panic washed away from his features and he let out a sigh.

“I…no. I didn’t mean to sound so…You’re fine the way you are dressed. Come on.” 

He finished with his scarf and made his way down the stairs. This was the first time John had seen the vampire so flustered over words. In the short time he had known him he knew he was sharp witted and knew exactly what he wanted to say. All he could think of was maybe it was an old saying from his day, a way to get ready, to go out. Not unless he thought he took it the wrong way and thought it had a more military feel to the words. 

“He must’ve thought he was triggering my PTSD and relieved when I didn’t have a reaction.” John mulled as he slid his jacket back on and went after the detective who was waiting for him by the kerb. With simple ease Sherlock raised his hand and hailed down a cab and soon they were off.

Settled in the cab Sherlock withdrew his phone from his coat and busied himself. John peered over at him and the wall Sherlock had made for himself; his expressionless face decorated him like a mask. A hard and subtle way of saying he did not want to be talked to or noticed. But John had other plans. He wasn’t going to let one misunderstanding ruin a possible interesting evening.

“I’m fine by the way.” John attempted to break the ice between them.

Sherlock remained silent. Not even a grunt in acknowledgement or a change in his stony exterior to hint that he had heard him. Time for a different approach.

“What’s a mind palace?” 

This caught Sherlock’s attention as he looked up from his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

“A memory technique. It helps me remember and bring forth information and images that I have stored throughout the years. A skill essential to my work.”

John nodded.

“Like people who have a photographic memory?”

“In some sense of the fashion.”

John sat back in keen interest now. No wonder Sherlock was able to come to the conclusions he did the first night they met despite his skill. If John was correct in thinking and given the fact that his new flatmate was a vampire; he must have vast amounts of information right at his fingertips. Able to solve crimes at a mere glance without even touching a body. All he would have to do is go to the right location in his mind to get whatever he needed. 

“Your mind palace must be Buckingham.” John admitted.

“Why do you say that? Because I am not what I am supposed to be? As much as I would love for it to be that vast I’m afraid not.” He gave the cab driver a quick glance and lowered his voice so to keep the conversation more private. 

“Living as long as I have things become too outdated that it no longer pertains to this day in age. And as time moves on things are changing more at a rapid pace. I hate to admit it but there are times where I have trouble keeping up. So in order to do so I have swept away old knowledge, deleted useless material, and tossed out antiques I doubt I will ever use again. Though there are certain memories I have preserved for the sake of sentiment alone. They are my tethered shadows to the past.”

The detective’s face had softened and eyes were deep with emotion. John could see now what he had meant before at the flat. Of course there were going to be times the vampire would slip back into old habits and sayings that held no value to him, how could he not. And Sherlock, being what he was, held great value to his past. His once human life. Times he was no doubt more familiar with. And the moments he did slip, it would be a constant reminder to him that he no longer lived in his time. He was simply moving through history getting farther and farther away from a life that didn’t exist anymore.

The rest of the cab ride was in silence from Sherlock’s own personal confession. In some ways John could understand how Sherlock felt. He had felt those same feelings while he was deployed. Away from family, living in a land different than your own, and not even sure if you would see home again. Sure it was a culture shock and one got used to it after awhile, but to constantly do it for years even decades sounded unfathomable. He was 37 and the younger generation now seemed strange to him. What would he feel like once he was 60? 70? Only time could tell.

The cab took them outside the city where it pulled up to a large institutional building. There waiting for them was several police cars and a crew of the Scotland Yard. A middle aged man came up to them as they exited out of the cab. The wind blew back his salt and pepper hair to reveal his stressed worry-lined features, but his face instantly found relief once his eyes set on Sherlock.

“Thank God you’re here. Is this him?” asked Lestrade as he pointed towards John, his voice gruff in the cold night air.

John’s ears perked at the question. Sherlock had already mentioned him to this Inspector? Of course he did. Not only would he have to approve a civilian coming to a crime scene, but this seemed as though it was just Sherlock’s nature to anticipate the future.

“Yes. This is Dr. John Watson. He is assisting me tonight. John this is Lestrade.” Sherlock introduced him to the Inspector and they shook hands.

“Well I’m not going to lie it’s a fucking nightmare here,” Lestrade started. “Katherine Carmichael, a patient only 17, was found in a field about a kilometer down the road. In pieces, mind you. Definitely not for the faint of heart. She was getting treatment here at Brightwell Hospital. It’s a mental institution. She was reported missing last week and then found earlier this evening by a jogger. We have a doctor in custody right now. He has a hobby of collecting old surgical tools and one of his was missing from his office.”

“Did anyone see her leave?” asked Sherlock.

“No. Power outage with a storm took down the cameras and none of the staff saw her leave the night she was reported missing. But here’s the thing. A search party was sent out to look for her and didn’t find anything all week. No signs, no nothing. Yet this evening she turns up butchered like she’s been to the slaughter house.”

“Show me her room.”

Led like a man of importance on parade, Sherlock was escorted to the patient’s room. To say it was a room of residence for a patient seemed rather bleak when they entered. No curtains draped the window, neither were there any sort of bed sheets or pillows of any kind. Windows were locked, a TV screwed into the wall itself, the door to the bathroom was sloped at an odd angle on its hinges. Nothing looked right in the room, but this didn’t seem to deter Sherlock as he glided around the room checking every crevice known to man. 

“What was she being treated for exactly?” John questioned the Inspector.

“She had a history of schizophrenia and hallucinations.” Lestrade confined to John. “Her parents had her committed when she stopped eating and sleeping. Wouldn’t take her medications anymore. Began seeing figures in her room telling her to kill her mum and dad. She was on suicide precautions. Made it known to her doctors that she didn’t want to live. Kid didn’t last more than a couple days here until she went missing.”

“Anything in her therapy notes saying if she saw these figures here?” Sherlock asked.

“No, nothing. Only thing they have listed is that she tried to commit suicide twice already. Hence why the drapes, blankets and pillows are missing. She tried to cut off her airway with them.”

“Custodial staff cleans rooms on a regular basis I presume?” Sherlock whisked around heading for the door and stopped to inspect it, turning the handle from the inside and out. His brows scrunched together as he gave a sideways glance to John. John immediately picked up on the look the detective gave.

“Doors are never necessarily locked. A psych ward mechanism. Especially if the patient is suicidal. No need to fumble around for keys if the patient is trying to off themselves. The staff would need to get in at a moments notice.”

Satisfied with the answer Sherlock continued on to the main hallway. He instantly spied a cleaning cart and quickly approached it.

“How tall was she?”

“Small thing, only five foot.” said Lestrade.

Sherlock took the clipboard hanging from the cart and flipped through its pages. 

“What time did the cameras go out?”

“About six o’clock in the evening.”

A grin donned Sherlock’s lips and he handed Lestrade the clipboard.

“Her room was scheduled to be cleaned at 6:15. And the last one on the list before they began cleaning the doctor’s offices. If I’m correct the patient made her escape on the cleaning cart hiding underneath in the lower compartment. Due to her small size and stature she could easily fit. She left on her own accord. The next question is why did she leave an institution if she did not feel safe. One would assume it was because she either didn’t feel safe with staff or the other patients.”

Lestrade briefly glanced over the clipboard and back to Sherlock.

“Why do I have a feeling there’s more?”

“If you look carefully there are scratches on the outside of her window on the pane itself. Though there are no signs of forced entry. They are barely visible in the light, but at just the right angle you can make out five lines. Her murderer came here to get her and she was trying to save herself from them.”

John swerved his head back into the room. This he had to see for himself. There could’ve been no way that there were scratches. The room itself was on the second floor and there was no direct contact to the window. No trees were near to have someone climb in nor a good foundation below to place a ladder due to large loose rocks that hugged the building’s base. As John looked closer at the glass, squinting his eyes into a strain. The sound of the air unit below him kicked in causing him to jump slightly and heart to race at the sudden noise. How the detective could see scratch marks in the dead of night was beyond him. He would have take Sherlock’s word for it. 

Just as he was about to leave he glanced at the window once more and this time saw something quite different. The heat of the unit played on the window its warm air bringing a fog upon the glass. As the cloudiness crept farther up it began to reveal its own hidden secrets.

“John. Come along. We’re going out to view the body.” Sherlock’s voice came from the doorway.

Before John could report his findings Sherlock and Lestrade were already making their way out. John had to make a quick pace to catch up as they went to the ground floor and proceeded out the back of the building. Sherlock made stop to look around, his ever vigilant eye inspecting the area. 

“She would’ve made it out the back door here while the rubbish was being thrown out in the skip. Plenty of places to hide behind cars till staff returned inside. And since the cameras were out no one saw her leave. But why would she go outside where the murderer is? Inside she would have been safe. Reported it to staff…not unless she knew her murderer.” Sherlock talked to himself.

“What if she was being threatened?” John questioned. “If she did know her murderer and if she was being threatened, maybe she was coerced out? It may have tied in with her hallucinations and schizophrenia. She probably didn’t know what was real.”

Sherlock turned quick and met John’s face with a impish grin. 

“Good, Watson! Lost in her own reality. But now the reason why the murderer wanted her dead. That is one motive we have yet to establish. Where is she, Lestrade?”

“There,” Lestrade pointed out to the set up lights in the field. “Help yourself. I’m sorry, but I’ve seen her more than I care too in one sitting. I’m sure you boys don’t need me to take you down there.”

“Don’t mind if we do.”

John had to practically run after Sherlock who had longer strides and moved faster than he did. He approached the body first, circling around it as he put on latex gloves. Probably picked from the cleaning cart, the doctor figured. John couldn’t help but make note of the deep sniff Sherlock gave off as he crouched down beside the deceased girl and produced a small magnifying glass from his pocket. Blood soaked the ground everywhere and on the girl herself. John wondered if Sherlock was ever tempted despite his declaration of celibacy towards drinking from a body. To him it must have looked like a buffet table the way her body was cut showing off every available artery and vein.

“Your gift of silence speaks volumes, Watson. What are your thoughts? Or are you feeling the same as Lestrade?” John peered over at Sherlock who was now looking at him with interest. 

He crouched down beside him and made a quick once over of the girl.

“Well it’s certainly very Jack the Ripper. She’s been hacked to death. There’s two puncture marks on her inner elbow she may have been drugged and taken. Every joint has been dismembered but all the cuts have been made in locations for easy amputation. Could be someone with medical knowledge of that sort of thing, but they are all jagged. Probably done with a saw. Done in a hurry. She looks extremely emaciated.” 

“A hurry, yes. She was alive when she was being dismembered.”

John’s eyes jumped to Sherlock’s.

“Death wants you to be terrified, but the scariest thing is wanting death. They made her suffer before she met her end.”

“But why bring her back here and butcher her?”

“It’s the killer’s note. A calling card, if you will, to show us what they can do. They want it for the recognition, the applause. They want to be known. The thrill of the chase to them is that eventually they want to be caught.”

John shook his head in disgust.

“What have we here?” Sherlock produced a penlight and shined it into the woman’s mouth. His gloved fingers prodded the inside and carefully withdrew a rock. 

“What the hell?” He breathed out.

This would be the second time in one evening that John had witnessed fear lace the detective’s eyes. What could a rock do to put him in such a state of vulnerability? As soon as fear came it had dissipated. He looked up to see the Inspector heading in their direction along with a gangly man who was wearing a blue zipped up plastic suit.

“What have you got Sherlock?” Lestrade piped in as he approached the two.

“It wasn’t the doctor. Nor the regular staff. I believe her hallucinations of the people she saw were real. Falling prey to a serial killer. You are looking for someone who has ties to the occult. No doubt she was their latest victim and sacrifice.”

“You mean like Devil worshipers or something?” The gangly man sneered down at Sherlock.

“Perhaps, but definitely occult related. She may have certain looks or features they found appealing and targeted her. Look through the janitorial and maintenance staff, ones that were hired from an outside agency. The cameras weren’t faulty by the storm they were taken offline just long enough for them to drug the girl and carry her out unnoticed in the cleaning cart. By that time she had already been hauled off in a vehicle waiting by the back door. Also they would have master keys to every room in that building. They could’ve easily swiped the missing surgical instrument.”

“Damn.” Cursed Lestrade.

“There’s more. Given her state of malnutrition she didn’t put up much of a fight. No skin or blood is evidence under her nails either. The way her body has been dismembered and the stone lodged back in her throat I would definitely say it is a Eastern European association you are looking for.” Sherlock handed him the rock and swiped off his gloves

Lestrade nodded turning away from the pair as he radioed on his walkie talkie and giving instructions to the gangly man that John now learned was named Anderson.

“That was amazing.” John stood following Sherlock.

Sherlock gave John a small smile and continued his trek towards the road. John had been right. Sherlock’s skills were no magic trick, but the real deal. The fact he could piece together this gruesome scene in just a an hour had been a remarkable feat. But there was something in Sherlock’s reasoning that didn’t add up.

“You changed your story. You said she left on her own, but then switched it to where someone drugged her and she was taken? Why?”

Sherlock sighed.

“Ever the observant one, John. You need facts before you make theories, instead of twisting theories to suit facts. That is why I changed it.”

John could see his reasoning. What kind of detective would he be if he didn’t have all the pieces of a puzzle so he could see the full picture?

“Before, when you asked if you were going into war, I should’ve explained myself better. With me you always be on the invisible battlefield. There is a constant danger lurking in every corner waiting to strike. Like a snake hiding in the grass. But I know you have your own battles to fight and I would not want to bring you into a war that you are not prepared for or even wanting to be in for that matter.”

“Why do I get the feeling that won’t make a difference? Mrs. Hudson says you get all sorts. Besides this has to be the craziest thing I’ve done in a while.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.” Sherlock chuckled.

For the first time John felt comfortably at ease with the vampire and cracked a smile of his own. He didn’t feel like he was being drug around simply for Sherlock’s sheer will or entertainment, but as a companion. Sherlock was the detective and he was his flatmate assisting in his medical expertise, nothing more, nothing less. 

The pair walked away from the crime scene and made their way back home.

****

“So how is the shoulder?” Sherlock asked as he hung up his coat on a peg and started up the stairs.

“Good it’s…wait.” John hurriedly followed suit and hung his jacket as well and went after him. “You didn’t need my help you were being a prat! You got me out to fix my shoulder!”

Sherlock stopped at the landing of the sitting room and turned back at John.

“And? You no longer are in any pain for the moment and it’s late so you’ll be off to bed soon.”

“So basically you used me and made me do laps,” John huffed as he caught up to him. “Brilliant.” He went to stairs to go to his own room. After all he had work in the morning and running around with an undead twat had made him exhausted.

“Oh please, I didn’t use you. You provided great insight and we set the Yard in the right direction. I would say this night has been most productive to the point that you will be extremely valuable next time.”

John paused in his motion towards the staircase and turned back to the detective. John hated to admit it but he had enjoyed his evening out with Sherlock. Despite the fact the victim had ended up dead. In their time together John had seen a glimpse of Sherlock’s world. He had moved through the crime scene snatching clues as if the had hovered in the air right before his eyes. Connecting dot to dot following a line only he could see amongst the chaos. 

Though there was one look that had cracked the sleuth’s lens in his search. What was it about the rock that had casted such fear in his eyes? Sherlock may have been a master at keeping himself controlled in high strung cases and learning to foresee the suspect’s next move, but how many times had he been caught off guard? If John had to guess it had to be slim to none. And Sherlock’s mentioning of the occult made him wonder if the rock had a deeper meaning.

Though there was one thing John had failed to mention to Sherlock and that was the mysterious invisible note upon the window. He wondered now if it was important or not since Sherlock had set the Yard straight. But the heavy singular word of “YOU” had made his blood go cold. Not because he thought the girl had wrote it, but because it was wrote on the outside and in a direction where anyone could read it. Even her. It was why John had questioned Sherlock’s change in story. He shook off his wavering feelings and returned his attention back to Sherlock.

“Well, my therapist did say I should get a hobby. Get out of the house more,’’ He nodded in agreement. “Alright. Next time.”

“Goodnight John.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock watched as the doctor retreated up the stairs to his room. This had been an odd night indeed. One where it had pulled on the lingering lines to his past. The case had been brief but it had brought a dark foreboding feeling of dread. Something he could not readily place. Like a word one has forgotten but hides at the end of ones tongue beckoning to be spoken into existence.Sherlock laid on the sofa and closed his eyes, resting his hands under his chin. There was only one solution to this prickling sensation in his mind and that was to go and seek answers. 

His mind palace was no Buckingham as John had spoke of before. Certainly no lavish library or expansive university. No if anything it was a mirrored image of the world he was already in. An altered dimension of the confinements of the simple flat. Sure he could open doors to rooms to mazes, hallways and other realities of his own choosing and design. However, the place he was looking for was beyond anything he imagined or kept stored within the palace’s epicenter itself. He was going to have to go deep.

As he had explained to John, he was old. Memories that could have once been summoned at a mere thought were becoming harder to do so. Especially if one was trying to remember the events that led to their ultimate demise. If he was going to have to find them he was going to have to travel. 

Down flights of stairs, into the depths of his deepest basement, one door led to out to the strange unknown. He opened it and was met with the salty breeze of the ocean shore. This gray landscape held no color of life, its sky was devoid of emotion, and waters as dark as midnight. He remembered visiting this beach in a distant memory under different circumstances making plans for the future that never came to be.

He shook his head of these thoughts. No need to get caught up on things he could no longer change. Where the water lapped the shore line sat a boat. This would be his mode of travel to search for what needed. Sherlock cast the boat off into the water and climbed in, letting it take him into the foggy blanket on the horizon.

As the boat sailed further and further the fog was becoming denser. These memories had become misguided, corrupt, buried at sea. Jagged rocks littered the shores of an island that threatened to steer the boat to certain doom. Monsters lurked in the darkened waters of the waves. As much as he longed not to visit here he knew he must. No matter how much it disturbed his mind. From the island, papers drifted away from it, carried by the tide. He reached down into the water and retrieved one hoping it may give some sort of relief to his curiosity. 

On the soaked page was a solitary note. A date which brought him to a time of more simplicity and once joy. But this is where it all began. The beginning of the end.

December 19th, 1894.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's mind palace shows a glimpse of where his fateful case started.

_December 20th, 1894_

_Change was on the air that winter. Not one of passing seasons, but revision in life itself. It was a strange premonition that weighed on Holmes’s mind as he observed the snowflakes flittering outside the cab window in their air like dance. He took another inhale of his pipe and smoke filled the compartment in its dense haze. Their latest case had took them to the countryside and by unfortunate accounts remained unsolved, leaving him dissatisfied with the outcome. The murderer had the liberty of being butchered and quartered himself thus ending the investigation all together. Though that didn’t stop Holmes from bringing home a trinket of their escapades. One that was settled nicely in a fishing basket._

_He could almost see Baker Street up ahead when the cab abruptly stopped in its journey. There was no outside traffic. So what was the problem? A gust of chilled wind nipped at his face and he caught eye of his companion jabbing away at a newspaper vendor._

_“Lord, always worried about that damnable magazine.” Holmes’s thoughts chided as he rolled his eyes. He longed to get warm by the fire, settle in for the evening and look back through his notes. And, if timing was just right, perhaps engage in forbidden pleasures. And the doctor was wasting precious time._

_The detective shifted his hand further up the doctor’s thigh, getting dangerously close to…_

_“Oh!” Watson swatted his hand away and finished up his conversation. “No, no, no, not at all. Good day to you.”_

_The doctor settled back into his seat and gave Holmes a murderous look._

_“Was that necessary?” He asked as he shoved up the window._

_“How else was I to get you to stop gossiping in the street like some rouged up woman.”_

_“Is that an offer I detect on your words? Or just your way of saying you want to start on some experiment that you have yet to tell me about? What is the secret in that basket?”_

_Holmes took another draw from his pipe. He truly wanted to say, both. If he didn’t get home soon and put the basket in an ice chest it was going to have a foul odor to it._

_“Christ, Holmes, what is in the basket?” He warily eyed it sitting on the floorboard by their feet._

_“Seeing that you are a medical professional and sometimes my experiments can run along the more morbid side I hope you will be open minded. Especially given the fact I spend most of my time in the morgue…”_

_“What’s in the basket?” Watson cut him off in his explanation. He knew him too well and knew when he was just throwing out words to beat around the bush. It was one habit that always confused him about his dear friend. Was he to be sensitive and spare feelings or blunt and to the point?_

_“His head.” The detective admitted finally._

_Watson’s eyes widened at him in shock._

_“You mean…the Squire?! What the devil for?!”_

_“Thought my other skull needed a friend.”_

_Their cab finally rounded the corner and arrived at 221B. It was his place of solitude and comfort. And with his time with the doctor it had become to be known as his sanctuary. Behind closed curtains and locked doors he was allowed to silently worship the only body he himself had died for. Both in metaphor and literal language. At least on paper. The only gospel he knew was in silent recognition they gave to each other. The hymns they had sung had been for their ears only. And such music it made. The times they dined together was their holy communion and the only prayers said was when they hoped to see each other again._

_The detective was met at the door by his less than pleased looking land lady as he got out of the cab. One thing that he was grateful for was that the elderly woman’s hearing was starting to go. Making her a heavy sleeper. She never knew what praises were being sung in the quarters above her head. Or how they were extensionally much louder when she trotted off to church every Sunday morning._

_“Mr. Holmes, I do wish you’d let me know when you’re planning to come home.”_

_“I hardly knew myself, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes as he took out his pipe. “That’s the trouble with dismembered country squires; they’re notoriously difficult to schedule.”_

_At that he clamped his pipe back in his mouth and paid the driver._

_“What’s in there?” asked Billy as he came out to help them with the luggage, peering at the basket in the doctor’s hand._

_“Never mind.” Watson brushed off the boy’s curious wonderings._

_“Did you catch a murderer, Mr. Holmes?” asked Billy over his shoulder as he took their luggage inside._

_“Caught the murderer; still looking for the legs. Think we’ll call it a draw.”_

_Once inside he took off his hat and coat putting them in their proper lodgings on the hook by the door. Further inside laying on the mantle piece of the fireplace was new posts for him. Crime, it seemed, never ceased while he was called away. Then again, he could always use the excuse that he and Watson would be busy for an hour or so considering their next case. At least it would give them some privacy._

_“I never enjoy them.” Mrs. Hudson admitted as she came in followed by the doctor. No doubt complaining about the stories in the papers again and getting him riled up._

_“Why not?”_

_“Well, I never say anything, do I? According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfasts.”_

_“Well, within the narrative, that is – broadly speaking – your function.” Watson said as he hung his hat and coat._

_“My what?!” Mrs. Hudson flustered._

_“Don’t feel singled out, Mrs Hudson. I’m hardly in the dog one.” Holmes replied as he shifted through the post._

_“The ‘dog one’?!”_

_“I’m your landlady, not a plot device.” She scuttled off to her own rooms in a huff, leaving the pair in the hallway._

_“Do you mean ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’?!” Watson called out as he went after the detective who had made for the stairs._

_He couldn't help but smirk to himself. He would never admit he liked Watson’s stories of their adventures together. Dashing about London, hunting criminals, the thrill of the chase at their feet. His companion had chronicled their lives at Baker Street like any romance author and even though he fussed to Watson about getting too carried away with it, it secretly warmed his heart. And on nights where they were separated in mind and body he would read those stories and relive those moments under the gaslight of his lamp safely in his bedroom._

_Holmes_ _reached the sitting room and suddenly his giddy gait became cautious. Hanging in the darkness was a wavering floral note. A scent that puzzled his mind for a moment, but yet one he knew. And one, he for sure knew, Mrs. Hudson did not normally wear. He threw open the first set of curtains and then the next. The late afternoon light flooded in and revealed a figure in a dress, all black as one does in mourning, including the veil that hid her face._

_“Good Lord!” Watson exclaimed as he entered the sitting room and made a once over of their new uninvited guest._

_“Mrs Hudson!” Holmes yelled from the doorway. “There is a woman in my sitting room! Is it intentional?”_

_“She’s a client! Said you were out; insisted on waiting.” Said the landlady as she called from downstairs._

_“Didn’t you ask her what she wanted?”_

_“You ask her!”_

_“Well, why didn’t you ask her?”_

_This did not sit well with the older woman and her tone became feisty._

_“How could I, what with me not talking and everything?”_

_Holmes rolled his eyes and returned to the sitting room._

_“Oh, for God’s sake. Give her some lines. She’s perfectly capable of starving us.” He whispered into Watson’s ear before addressing the woman that occupied the room._

_“Good afternoon. I’m Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. You may speak freely in front of him, as he rarely understands a word.”_

_“Holmes.”_

_“However, before you do, allow me to make some trifling observations.” Holmes walked closer to her, the floral perfume ever evident than before. He knew the scent. It was always present on Watson’s clothing whenever he decided to bless his appearance at his doorstep. No doubt it was the one he had been earnestly trying to beat time in order to get home. That he may have some taste of the Garden of Eden before he was forcefully banished to the outside and made to look inside in torment._

_“You have an impish sense of humor which currently you’re deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish,” He continued as he circled around her and came back to Watson’s side._

_“You have recently married a man of a seemingly kindly disposition who has now abandoned you for an unsavory companion of dubious morals. You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible.”_

_“Good Lord, Holmes!” the doctor scoffed._

_“All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume.”_

_“Her perfume?”_

_“Yes, her perfume, which brings insight to me and disaster to you.”_

_“How so?”_

_There were times when Watson was his beacon of light and other times when the doctor’s light was so dim Holmes wondered how he could even see. Surely he would know the very scent of the woman he had chosen to spend his life with, the one he had taken oath at the alter, the one that seemed to be catching on to their habits together. He stepped forward and unveiled the shrouded woman, leaving her face for display._

_“Because I recognized it and you did not.”_

_“Mary!” Watson’s eyes widened as the veil fell away._

_“John.” His wife answered._

_“Why, in God’s name, are you pretending to be a client?”_

_“Because I could think of no other way to see my husband, Husband.”_

_It seemed as though the desires of the flesh would have to wait for another time. Holmes had noted the increased vigilance of the doctor’s wife as of late and it was starting to become more pronounced. Surely by now she would have picked up on her husband’s long excursions on cases. Being gone for weeks at a time. Or simply observing how the doctor abandoned their residential home for the comforts of the detective’s. Watson was no stranger to Holmes if he showed up unannounced and stayed the night. Those were the times he longed for the most and he had hoped to engage on such actions if it weren’t the ill timed arrival of the doctor’s significant other._

_The couple’s banter from the fire place could be heard as he tried to drown out his own misery in the comforting arms of his Stradivarius. But no swaying tune of Mendelssohn or Wagner would console him. Nor would it woo his beloved companion to him in the heat of a triangular lover’s quarrel. He could take it no more._

_“Enough!” Holmes commanded and the room fell silent. “The stage is set, and the curtain rises. We are ready to begin.”_

_“Begin what?” asked Mrs. Watson._

_“Sometimes, to solve a case, one must first solve another.”_

_“Oh, you have a case, then, a new one?”_

_The detectives heart swelled at the doctor’s enthusiasm. One case finished and already so willing to start another. At least for now it would be the waving white flag calling for truce. A subtle distraction for the time being as he revealed their new visitor._

_“Lestrade!” Holmes beckoned over his shoulder. “Do stop loitering by the door and come in.”_

_As on cue the door of the sitting room burst open to a disgruntled looking Inspector. His heavy breathing and anxious expression was of near fright. Whatever could the Inspector want at this hour to come charging to his door like a dog with its tail between its legs? He gave a once over of the room and his eyes caught onto the table by the window for the briefest of seconds. It held no doubt in the detective’s mind that what had happened to the Inspector it definitely warranted a hard drink._

_“How did you know it was me?” Lestrade focused on the detective as Holmes sat in his chair._

_“The regulation tread is unmistakeable; lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson.”_

_“I-I-I just came up. Mrs Hudson didn’t seem to be talking.”_

_“I fear she’s branched into literary criticism by means of satire.” He explained as he filled his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper on the table beside him. “It is a distressing trend in the modern landlady. What brings you here in your off-duty hours?”_

_Lestrade took a brief glance to his right, then looked back at Holmes._

_“How’d you know I’m off-duty?”_

_“Well, since your arrival you’ve addressed over forty percent of your remarks to my decanter.” He pointed to the table by the window on which laid a silver tray that held various bottles and glasses, including a whisky decanter. “Watson, give the Inspector what he so clearly wants.”_

_At his request Watson walked to the table across the room and poured a drink for their new guest._

_“So, Lestrade, what can we do for you?”_

_“Oh, I’m not here on business. I just thought I’d ... drop by.”_

_“A social call?” Watson asked as he handed him the drink._

_“Yeah, of course, just to wish you the compliments of the season.”_

_Holmes took his pipe from his mouth and stared pointedly at the Inspector. This was yet another trial upon his patience. True, he would admit that Watson’s softer refineries of manners had rubbed off onto him on the art of conversation. However, even he had his own preference to certain people where he was more lenient to his friend than to the Yard. Making him more impatient for his clients to simply get on with it and stop blabbering at the mouth. He could tell he was making the Inspector even more nervous from his silent regard as Lestrade held his gaze and then raised his glass._

_“Merry Christmas?” said Lestrade._

_The trio exchanged their holiday salutations to the anxious man._

_“Thank God that’s over.” Quipped Holmes. “Now, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door but embarrasses you to relate?”_

_Lestrade took a long drink from his glass and closed his eyes before shaking his head. Possibly trying to rid his mind of ill thoughts before he beheld the world again with open eyes._

_“Who said anything happened?” Lestrade defended._

_“You did, by every means short of actual speech.”_

_The Inspector took another deep drink of the liquor draining the glass dry._

_“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, Holmes?,” Watson held up a finger to pause Sherlock’s deductions. “You have misdiagnosed.”_

_Sherlock grinned._

_“Then correct me, Doctor.”_

_He loved to see how Watson’s brain worked. Whereas the doctor was the more sentimental of the two of them and Holmes the more logical, he regarded his way of thinking with the highest esteem. Rarely did people tolerate his company and even more rare to understand his methods in ways of deduction. It amazed him, from time to time, to see his Watson do both._

_“He didn’t want a drink …” Watson took the Inspector’s glass to reveal the emptiness of the crystal. “... he needed one. He’s not embarrassed; he’s afraid.”_

_With a quick glance at the evidence the doctor set before the detective from the drained glass to the frightened wear upon Lestrade’s face, he knew he was right. Employed in his company he knew this was more valuable information than anything Watson could learn from married life._

_“My Boswell is learning. They do grow up so fast.” He threw a proud smile towards the doctor’s wife who returned it._

_“Watson, restore the courage of Scotland Yard. Inspector, do sit down.” He gestured to the chair with his pipe._

_“I’m-I’m not afraid, exactly.” Lestrade took the offered seat._

_“Fear is wisdom in the face of danger. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”_

_Watson brought over the refilled glass and gave it to the Inspector._

_“Thank you.” Lestrade said graciously._

_“From the beginning, then.”_

_And with a stroke of Holmes’s match the flames engulfed the memory._

It was the ticking of his wristwatch that brought Sherlock from his trance back into the darkened room of the present. All was still throughout the flat and the grayish hue of the dawn barely brought color to the morning. Checking the time it was only a quarter after five. It was at times like these, searching his mind palace, that time became relative. He could stay succumbed for hours, even days if he so chose. However, again just like the premonition long ago, he felt as though time was not on his side. Like an irritable itch on ones back that won’t be rid of. No matter how much you scratch at it. 

Sherlock rose up from the sofa and made his way towards his room. Locking the door from the outside world to his small refuge.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor causes some tension for Sherlock and John is going on his first blood hunt for a cranky vampire.

The sounds of heavy artillery and the shouts of his men from his nightmares is what usually threw John back into the land of the living. He was no stranger to the curse of stressed induced dreams that wanted him to relive his every moment from the war like some personal circle of Hell. Every night he felt like it was a game of roulette of whether he would sleep peacefully or enter the battle once again. Though the night terrors is not what had awoken John this morning.

Grunts, groans and yelling. Crashes, bangs and booms. A literal war zone within the flat itself beneath John’s bed from the sitting room below. He immediately threw off his covers and made for the stairs, not bothering to change out of his night clothes. The detective had been irritable lately and he wasn’t exactly sure if it was from the lack of cases to keep him occupied or the fact John knew he had no blood supply in the fridge to fend off his hunger.

_“This is it. He’s snapped and he’s trying to kill a client…”_ John reached the bottom of the stairs to the landing to see the sitting room in total chaos. Furniture had been toppled over, papers strewn about and two men fighting to the death. Sherlock, a fencing sword in hand and the other man, countering back his attacks, with his umbrella.

“What the _hell_ is going on?!” John’s sounded at the display.

Sherlock, never breaking his stance, greeted him as if there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary going on at the moment.

“Ah, morning John! Good to see you _alive_ and _well,_ ” He stressed the two words with emphasis. “As I have been trying to explain that to my overly annoying relation.”

John stared at Sherlock as if he had just said ‘the sky was falling’. A relation? As in…family? John’s head was having a hard time wrapping itself around the construct.

“What?” John asked in disbelief.

“Someone had to come and look in on you Dr. Watson. Or recover you. Whichever came first.” The man that was speaking was older, well dressed in a crisp suit and barely looked like anything resembling Sherlock. His frame was not as lean, his nose protruded over like a beak and he did not have the luscious locks, but more likely losing it. 

“Sorry, _what_?” 

However, the man lost the match right at that second. In movements faster than John could see Sherlock plucked the umbrella out of the man’s grasp with his sword. It flew like a spear towards Sherlock as he caught it with ease and kicked back the man onto the sofa, his sword leveled at his throat. John all but gaped at the scene before him.

“Bested you in less than eight minutes. You’re getting old Mycroft.”

“Some sooner than others, uncle of mine.”

Sherlock drew back his sword and tossed the umbrella back to him.

“Wh...uncle? Uncle? He’s your uncle?!” John exclaimed as he pointed to Sherlock.

“More along the lines of great-great uncle per say. It is by some miraculous chance that we share the same bloodline.” The man explained as he stood and readjusted his suit.

“Consequently.” Sherlock gritted out was he thrust his sword into the fireplace stand and it hit the floor with forceful thud.

“Right. Too early in the morning for this.” John made his way to the kitchen and flipped on the kettle. There was nothing a dose of tea couldn’t help.

“You’ve seen him. Now you can go.” Sherlock’s tone was aggravated as he leered at Mycroft.

“I will decide when to take my leave. How is he treating you Dr. Watson? Hellish to live with I imagine.” 

John turned and rested back on the counter, arms crossed.

“It’s been interesting to say the least.” 

“I’m sure. Are you here...because you live here or against your will? He hasn’t bothered you has he?”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock plopped in his chair, resting his head on the balled up fist of his hand. If looks could kill Sherlock’s menacing eyes could’ve easily killed an army by the way he looked at Mycroft. 

“If you mean that he closed out my flat two weeks before snatching me off the street because this flat was better I guess I could say…both."

“He hasn’t taken advantage of you?”

Sherlock slammed his hand down on the arm rest of his chair. The audible pound had made John jump and look at him while Mycroft barely seemed fazed by the action.

“I haven’t bit him!”

“Yet he has been living here for a week for some reason? A considerable detail on both mine and Dr. Watson’s part. What other reason would he be here?”

A low rumble of a growl came from the vampire. 

It finally donned on John what this was. It was a welfare check. This relation of Sherlock’s wasn’t just coming in to see who now occupied the vampire’s house but to see if he was being used as a food source. At least it made John feel a little better that he wasn’t the only one that thought he was going to be playing the part of a live in three-squares-a-day meal.

“Alright, children,” John interceded. “No, I live here. Mind you he had a bit of a dickhead way of asking for a flat mate but in all honesty he was just there helping me out. Being discharged from the army has been a rough change for me. Rougher still given my newer circumstances but...all in all I am grateful.” 

“And I’m sure you know the consequences if such information about Sherlock should be released?”

“Fantasizing about being the next meal isn’t as cool as it really seems,” John said nonchalantly, but the two men looked back at him with confused expressions. “Never mind. I would assume I would end up missing and or dead.”

“Is he always this morbid?” Mycroft addressed Sherlock.

“Immensely. His imagination of death never seems to cease.” 

Mycroft nodded in affirmation seemingly content upon the answer.

“I will increase security. As precaution. Good day.”

John watched the man leave and Sherlock strode to the door all but giving it a firm slam shut.

“Thank God that’s over with.” Sherlock sighed in relief.

“Security? Is he..”

“The British government. Practically is the British government. He has eyes all over the country and henchmen to watch the entirety of the nation.”

The kettle ended its cycle and John began to make himself a cup along with breakfast. True to Mrs. Hudson’s word it had only been one time since he had moved in that she had graced the table with her cooking. He didn’t mind though and soon set himself up a serving of cereal and sat at the table. But one thing she could be counted on was bringing Sherlock’s daily newspaper. It was her everyday religious duty. John glanced at the stories on the front page and frowned went he read over the article concerning the patient, Katherine Carmichael, and the story surrounding her murder. One thing he noticed it left out any mention of the detective.

“This is ridiculous. Not one mention that you helped. Lestrade takes all the credit and you are practically swept under a rug.” He passed the newspaper across the table to Sherlock as he took a seat.

“ _Still_ bothers you?” The smallest hints of a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“Does it not you?”

Sherlock shrugged as he flipped open the paper.

“It makes little difference to me. All I care about is the work. Problems, puzzles, cyphers they are what interest me. Not making a name for myself.”

“Why?”

“Seeing as a fact that I don’t age it would cause some problems. Must I spell it out for you. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. The public eye would constantly be at my doorstep and now in a time when more advanced media would archive my image I can’t afford to be recognized.”

John gazed at him as he read the headlines. It was still hard to grasp at times that this man was a vampire. So far everything he had expected of the typical stereotype had been the opposite. Even though Sherlock had a striking appearance that would be considered handsome by anyone he just didn’t fit the idea of the vampire look. Though he knew movies overhyped that persona with actors and theatrical makeup.

As Sherlock shifted his paper John’s eyes noticed a mark on the crook of his neck, shining silver embedded in his flesh in the morning light. It was a scar, several of them actually, barely visible if one wasn’t intentionally looking for them. Some were long and jagged, parallel to one another as if someone took a two pronged fork and ran it down the side of his neck where it disappeared under his shirt collar. Others were half moon shaped resembling teeth marks.

_“Good God is that…it has to be. Bites from where he was changed.”_

Just observing it gave John a cold chill down his spine. Something didn’t look right about it. Every other movie or TV show he had seen the vampire simply bite their victims. Two punctures and that was it. Why did Sherlock’s look like he was mauled and assaulted? Bit multiple times in such a violent manner, uneven and not straight made John’s mind jump to one conclusion.

Not only was Sherlock technically murdered and turned into a dark being, he had struggled against his assailant, tried to fight back and get away.

What event had warranted him such a horrible death? What had happened so long ago to fall not as the hero detective solving crimes, but as the victim? John thought for a moment but his fantasized thoughts came up extremely broad. A number of things could have happened. He could have been randomly attacked or, given his line of work, turned by someone he was pursuing. 

“If I may ask, how old are you?”

Sherlock’s eyes sharply lifted to John and as if by physical force became darker.

“Older than you, obviously.” He clipped and returned his attention back to the newspaper.

“Well I gathered that from day one, but what is your real age?”

“32.”

“And…how long have you been…”

“A long time.”

“How did it happen?”

Sherlock unglued his gaze from the paper, his full focus now on his flatmate.

“You really want to know?” He quirked an eyebrow in an almost challenging way that only dared John to confirm his answer. When John nodded, Sherlock suddenly shut down his paper and tossed it onto the table haphazardly, clasping his fingers under his chin. The features that were once controlled turned menacing as quick as a stroke of lightening. 

“Very well quid pro quo.”

“What?”

“If you want to know what happened, how I was turned into this, then tell me about Afghanistan. What happened the day that stray bullet marred your shoulder? How you stitched back together your brothers in arms as they screamed in terror against the blasts of cannons in the desert plains,” He tilted his head to the side as if his scrutiny gave him a better angle to read John from across the table. “If my deduction serves me right, from what I have seen of how you hold your shoulder, I would say the bullet shattered the collar bone and severed the subclavian artery. You must have lost quite a bit of blood. You had not one but two surgeries to set it right. Must have left a sizable scar. The end result was that it riddled your health to the point you were discharged and sent home.”

Tension filled the air so thick it had made John pause in his breakfast and stare at the man before him. How was it that Sherlock could pry into his inner most nightmares and tease at demons to reveal themselves. As quickly as the onslaught came, just like a passing storm, the clouds lifted off Sherlock’s face; straightening back in his chair letting his presence soften.

“Now you see. There are even ghosts in your past that define your every sunny day. When mine is more literal in the sense. Besides my story is not one that can be easily told over the breakfast table just like yours isn’t.”

His words struck a chord within John. Perhaps he was right. How was he to expect a traumatizing tale of the detective’s own death when he couldn’t even be truthful about his own plagues with his therapist. John’s eyes pulled away from Sherlock’s and suddenly found his cereal more interesting.

“Right. Sorry I...sorry.”

“One thing you must understand John, I have lived many years and am far older than you. I have felt loss, grief, and anger longer and more deeply than most. Sure my transition into the being that I am happened a long time ago, but there are times it haunts my dreams as though it just happened yesterday,” Sherlock stood and produced a lunch box that had been nestled on top of the fridge and set it on the table. “You need to hurry if you are going to be on time for work. Take the lunch box with you. I’m sure it will be…discrete…if you follow my meaning.”

Ah, first day on the hunt. So this is how his day would go. John hurried with his breakfast and finished the rest of his morning rituals. By the time he was ready to head out the door he snatched up the lunchbox and found it oddly heavy. He unzipped and found the contents of a sandwich, apple and a bottle of water. A lunch he didn’t remember making in preparation the night before for the work day ahead. Sherlock must have made it.

_“A meal for a meal?”_ John thought as he re-zipped it and headed out the flat, catching a bus before it left for its destination.

As Baker Street disappeared out of sight he could see the pale figure of Sherlock looking out the window watching his bus. Another thought occurred to him. Mycroft had come to the conclusion John was being fed off of and held against his own will. On top of it all Sherlock had made no defense on his part as to why John was living there. Something told John that Sherlock hadn’t exactly been truthful to Mycroft. What story had Sherlock told him? The only expressive reaction Mycroft had got out of Sherlock was that he had swore he hadn’t bit John. Though it left John to wonder. Where exactly did Sherlock get his blood source before him if not directly biting a victim? John had a theory it may have been from Mycroft if he indeed held a higher power office in the British government. God only knows _how_ it was acquired or _who_ it came from.

When John’s shift ended later that night he a made trip to he lower levels of the hospital. One thing he was grateful for, now that most of the day shift was on their way home, there was very few people around during the night. If he planned this all right he could easily slip in and slip out without anyone really paying attention or noticing him. Though one other thing he didn’t expect was getting lost. He had only acquired his job about two months ago and he still had yet to visit the laboratories the inhabited the basement. In some ways it gave him an eerie feeling. With no people around the lifeless hallways were numerous and vast. As though he was entering a maze and he wasn’t exactly sure where the exit was. And adding to the creepiness of it abandoned beds and gurneys were parked along the walls with unused medical equipment as their bedside furniture.

“Hello?” 

A small voice came from behind him and John head whipped around to meet the sudden intruder: a petite woman. Her lab coat draped her small frame practically swallowing her whole making her look much smaller and younger than what she seemed. It didn’t really help matters none when John took note of her odd mismatched outfit that looked more like something a teenager would wear at university. Even her hair was swept up in a ponytail with a scrunchy that could easily date back to the 80’s or 90’s. John tried to read her name tag but it was covered by the lapels of her coat. The only words he could make out was that she was a pathologist assistant.

“Eh, hi.” John fumbled out.

“Can I help you with something? Are you lost?” 

“Well, um…yeah, I’m looking for the uh labs. I ordered blood about half an hour ago and it still hasn’t turned up yet. So I came down myself. To get it.”

“Oh my. Then you need to get down to the bank. Its down the hall. I’ll take you.”

Bizarre clothes aside, the woman’s expressive eyes and soft features held no distain that he was a wondering bumbling doctor in lands of the unknown that was more her area. 

“Thanks.”

He made sure to catalog exactly where they were going and which hallways they maneuvered so he wouldn’t have to ask a second time. Let alone get caught or bump into unwanted company along the way. They entered a laboratory that was thankfully vacant at the moment and she guided him to where the blood was stored.

“Here. What type do they need?” She asked.

Dear God, the thought had never came to his mind to ask. Or should he have asked? Was one type better than the other? As if asking was somehow learning one’s preference to Chinese than to pasta. How the hell was he supposed to know what Sherlock’s preferred blood type was. Then again Sherlock said he needed blood. He never mentioned a type. He had a feeling that if he needed to know he would’ve said something by now.

“O neg. I need about three pints.”

“Three? They must be bad off.” She handed him the bags.

“Yeah you should see the guy. Bad hemoglobin levels, anemic, pale as a damn ghost. Not healthy I tell you. Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m Molly by the way.”

“John.”

“Don’t let me keep you. Maybe you can tell me later how its going with Mr. Anemic. Over coffee?”

John couldn’t help but laugh mentally. Mr. Anemic? He wasn’t going to let that one go.

“Sure, coffee. Coffee sounds lovely.”

He wasted no time leaving the lab. For once it would be nice to talk to someone normal. Even though if it was under the strong circumstance of getting blood for a vampire. But she would never know that. In his short time home he hadn’t made any fast friends and had gone straight to work. Sure he had coworkers he saw on a day to day basis but no one he could say he saw after the day was done.

He swiftly made it to the staffing room where he kept his personal items and put the bags into the lunch box. Throwing on his coat and with a determined route to get out of the hospital, John made it outside without being stopped. Safe at last. At least so he thought. 

By the kerb was a parked black car. The vehicle itself did not appear threatening, but the person who sat inside it with the door open, waiting for him to draw closer.

“Evening Dr. Watson. Why don’t you come along for the ride?” Mycroft beckoned.

“I don’t remember calling for a ride.”

“A friendly chat never hurt anyone. I assure you will arrive at Baker Street unharmed.”

“Is that how people in your family usually make friends? They just pick them off the street like vultures terrifying them half to death?”

Mycroft’s expression quickly changed to a stony mask. A common feature that secured his thoughts on doubting if he and Sherlock were indeed related. 

_“The resting bitch face must be hereditary.”_ John thought to himself as he got in the car reluctantly.

“When Sherlock called me up and said he was going to need certain security cameras within Barts Hospital temporarily shut down tonight I became….concerned.” Mycroft stated as they drove off. “I’ve been too lax on him lately, I’m afraid. And when I saw on the CCTV footage of Baker Street that you were entering and exiting the premises the past week, well, forgive me in saying I was worried he had fallen off the wagon. Terms I don’t put lightly.”

John’s eyebrows rose. 

_“Security cameras? So that’s why he wasn’t concerned about me getting caught.”_ His mind wandered back to the night he first met Sherlock.

“He’s…done this before has he?”

“Not for a very long time. That’s why under careful supervision and a controlled diet, so to speak, I have supplied him what he needs given his circumstances. Now why he has decided to change this arrangement is beyond me. I was hoping you would have provided more insight, but from your statement this morning I am back at the drawing board.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

John was slightly confused. How was it the relative of Sherlock’s not know what was going on with him? Every family has their own secrets, that was no shocker, but it wasn’t everyday a family would have a vampire relative just for fun. He figured it would be something that would have to be heavily guarded. But he had assumed that said family would know all there was to know on their unique relative.

“Know this, Sherlock does everything for a reason, in some form or another. Whether we understand why he does it makes little difference to him. It is easier for him know something than to explain why he knows it. He has had a set schedule of living for as long as he has lived. And when he suddenly does something out of the ordinary it is like a rock being dropped into water. It splashes. Makes a mess. And its ripples are what follows in its wake. The thing is, is the rock as already splashed. It is the mess that I am waiting for.”

“What kind of mess are you waiting for?” John asked not really sure if he wanted to know the answer. If it was the type of mess he was thinking of, who in London would be able to stop Sherlock in a hunger filled blood bath as he drained his victims throughout the city? But his thoughts paused. No, it wasn’t who would stop him but who would even try to help him?

“If I knew I would tell you. But I have no answers.” The car came to a stop and John peered out the window and saw the door of 221B waiting for him.

“A word of advice, if it will help.” Mycroft opened the car door for him. “When he begins to get hungry he tends to brood. That is when he will often retreat into himself. Forgets to nourish himself. Be careful of him then. It is when he is most uncontrolled.”

John stepped out of the car and the door shut. 

“If you should find yourself in a compromising situation.” His hand rested out the window, a business card nestled in-between his index and middle finger. John took the card. He understood what Mycroft was doing. Not only did he act as a protector of the government, but the protector of Sherlock and now for John. 

“You mean if he needs to have a leash put on him?”

“If it ensures your safety, then yes.”

“I think I’ll be alright. Surely it can’t be that hard to get a vampire to eat?”

“Oh I think you will be regretting those words. Evening.” The window rolled up and the car drove off.

As he went inside, John was possessed by the harmony of a violin coming from the upstairs flat. It was something of beauty. Notes swelled on the crescendo and then tremble of vibrato with a skillful hand. He quietly made his way up and entered through the kitchen door, admiring the music from afar. John couldn’t help but think back to their encounter earlier that morning and how he noticed the detective’s gruesome marks on his neck. Despite being changed, essentially murdered, and made into this blood drinking being, he was still able to create balance within the chaos.

_“Just like he was able to do for me.”_ John thought as he put the bags of blood in the fridge.

If anyone had told him before he was sent back home that he would be living with a vampire who was probably a century old detective, going after criminals and providing him blood so he wouldn’t starve himself, he would’ve asked them what drugs they had been taking. Even if they told him that there was a man that was going to be providing him a home, friendship, and the most craziest way to relieve him of his pains from war, he still would’ve been skeptical. Sherlock had brought balance to his once chaotic life and he had to say it wasn’t so bad after all. 

“Bags in the fridge, Mr. Anemic.” 

A squawk of a misplaced note interrupted the delicate melody and John grinned that he was able to disrupt the peace.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are on a stake out to catch their latest suspect but things turn bad when Sherlock has a protective moment and things get ugly.

What had once been a one time occurrence began to take form as a new routine for John. It wasn’t too long after the case of the murdered psychiatric patient that they were swept away again on another adventure. He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock had asked him to come along to join him and he was eager to go. This time however, it was a stake out. 

Heavy mist was trying to turn into rain, but luckily they had been spared the weather’s change by the cover of the roof of an empty parking garage. The top most part gave them the surveillance they needed to keep a clever eye on the street below; watching and waiting for their suspect. As a trained military man John was accustomed to waiting out the enemy in more harsher climates of the desert. London’s weather appeared to be no different. They were going on their third hour of their watch and so far there was no word from Sherlock to indicate he had seen them.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to be lacking in patience. In the time they had spent waiting he had managed to easily burn through half a pack of cigarettes. His continuous pacing and smoking did nothing to quell his anxiousness and frankly it was beginning to make John nervous himself.

“Those things will kill you, you know.” said John trying to defuse the tension.

The detective broke his repetitive walk, turning on his heel to give the doctor a confused expression. His hand that had a cigarette nestled between his fingers dropped from his face and he let out a plume of smoke from his lips before he spoke.

“Well, I don’t think it will kill me anytime soon. I have already checked that box off of my list of things to do in life. Even if I was alive my lungs would be as black as coal by now.”

“Did you take up smoking before or after your change?” John internally cringed at how the question escaped his mouth with no blatant regard for the detective. After all the last time he had asked anything about Sherlock’s personal life, dead or undead, he had given him a cold defensive answer.

“Before. I started smoking after I left home for university. I was a connoisseur of tobacco back then. I do believe I have smoked just about anything and everything ranging from pipe tobacco, cigars, and cigarettes. Hard habit to discontinue after awhile.”

“I bet.” 

John was surprised for once that Sherlock had given any response, especially about his past. And curiosity struck him again to see how far he would get before the vampire brushed him off.

Sherlock took another peek to the streets down below and his features upturned into a scowl. 

“For heaven’s sake how long is it going to take for them to show up?” He huffed.

“Still hasn’t come by yet?”

“No. At this rate hell will freeze over.” Sherlock returned back to his rigorous pacing.

John wondered how on earth he fared in his past life with his type of work. In some ways it amused him to see the normally calm and collected man be completely agitated over the fact he had to wait for his suspect. It seemed like patience was not a virtue of his. Though the more he observed him, the more his amusement died off and his skill for diagnosing came out. A empty half a pack of cigarettes, the pacing, the constant vigilance of the surrounding area, the way Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him subconsciously. This wasn't a display of Sherlock’s lack of patience, this was anxiety. How could he be so blind? He was a PTSD sufferer himself he knew the signs.

But the question now was what was triggering it? Was it the location? The fact they were waiting on a suspect? The possibilities were endless. The main thing right now though was to distract Sherlock of his plagued thoughts.

“I was wondering…”

“You are always wondering, Watson.” Clipped the detective.

“That may be so, but I have a question that you may either answer or take the wrong way.”

Sherlock dropped the butt of the cigarette on the ground and snuffed it out with his shoe.

“Oh let’s hear it. Might as well since we’re waiting.”

“I don’t see how you can’t just, I don’t know, smell down a suspect if they have the victim’s blood on them.” John knew he was pressing his luck by asking such a question, but in all honesty he was truly interested. Though the last thing he wanted to do was make Sherlock feel like he was asking him because he was fascinated by his infliction. 

`

Sherlock gave the doctor a hard look before reaching into his coat pocket and retrieved another cigarette. As he brought it to his lips he studied the shorter man in front of him. Usually people romanticized vampirism in their own strange way, but as far as he saw it, it was a parasitic disease. And not one he talked openly about. Though the more he regarded John his mind had changed. He truly was a man like no other and had put up with his unique living condition with relative ease. Also he could see his interest in him from a medical and academic perspective. 

“I am not a hound, John.” Sherlock said as he lit his cigarette and exhaled the fumes from his mouth. “In theory and thinking I see your reasoning, but it is not all that simple. A suspect may leave their scent at the crime scene, but if left to the elements it can die out. And the suspect can easily wash off the victim’s blood off their person. You see to me the scent of a person and the scent of blood are two distinct smells. One is created by the natural hormones of the body that can be sweat or odor. And depending on the body the smell can range based on their lifestyle and health. The other, made by blood, is a scent all on its own. Since blood contains Iron atoms there is a metallic note to it. Some have it stronger than others. Even right now I could probably pinpoint here on the street who has a wound and who does not simply by following the smell of blood.”

“How can you do that?” Asked John.

“I can not smell blood unless it has been spilt. Thank goodness the years of conditioning myself to this lifestyle has made me keep myself in check. If I hadn’t I would be a raving mad lunatic at the sight of a minor scrape.”

“Is that why you use the bagged blood? To constantly keep yourself fed so you don’t have to go a week or so without it on purpose?”

Sherlock took another draw from the cigarette. 

“Just because I can’t smell blood unless it has been spilt doesn’t mean I don’t crave it constantly. How long can you go without eating before you become truly hungry to the point of starvation? A couple days? So what do you do? You eat to stave off the pains of hunger. That is one of my many reasons for the bagged blood.”

“Then what is keeping you from not going haywire?” It was a question that constantly nagged at the back of John’s mind. How much would be too much for the vampire? His limitations? How much danger would John truly be in if Sherlock did go off the rails?

“Sheer will more or less. Have you ever been addicted to something or craved something you just had to have? Let’s say your craving is a beer at the pub you enjoy. Say one night you go for a drink and that drink is so satisfying you have to have another. So the next night you go again. Then again and again and again and so on. Its not because you are thirsty. Its because you _crave_ the taste. John, it wont matter to me whether I'm hungry or not. If I smell and taste blood that is appealing to me I _will_ want more. Do you understand now?”

John nodded.

“I believe so. Kind of like how a drug addict gets high. One taste and they’re addicted.”

“Precisely.”

“Have you ever…done that?”

“No. I will admit I have had some blood taste better than others. The blood that is used by medical professionals to treat patients lacks certain things but it is enough to satisfy me. And for that we are all grateful.” Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked as if agreeing internally with himself.

“How long did it take for you to get used to being like you are? Blood craving and all of that?”

“A couple of years. There for a while I did not accept any cases involving bloodshed for fear I would give myself away. The chief detective of Scotland Yard at the time thought I was doing it because it brought back memories of a case. One I was working on before I was turned. I never said anything and let him believe that was the truth. Leaving it up to sensitivities.”

_“So it was a case. It had to be! Pursuing a criminal only to become the victim.”_ John’s thoughts felt pleased it had come to the conclusion he had wondered all along.

“What was the case you were working on. Must have been something if he thought it shook you up a bit.”

“It did more than shake me up. It cost a life.”

Now this answer seemed vague. Did he mean his life or the life of another? If his death was truly as traumatizing as John was led to believe he would have to say it was the detective’s. After all how would one feel if they were suddenly murdered only to be brought back to life and realize they would never die. Continue living while the ones you loved passed on. It had to be a hell within itself.

“We might as well call this stake out a draw. I do believe our endeavors will be fruitless tonight. Why don’t you go on and seek out the comforts of home. I shall be along momentarily.” Said Sherlock.

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock waved a hand at him to shoo John along. “And for your company I’ll even bring back that Chinese dish you are fond of.”

“Alright. I’ll see you back home.”

The doctor left the detective by the wall of the garage to finish his cigarette and started for the stairs by the side of building. He was glad that the vampire was finally starting to open up a little even if it was small minuscule information about himself. It was starting to make him seem more real, more human. This man once had a life, ambitions, dreams, a career. He had to say he was even interested in what he was like in his past life. But those would be conversations for another time. 

The next few seconds caught John off guard. Instead of reaching the stairs he was suddenly being grabbed by the arm in a vice like grip and spun around. He made full contact that was the body of Sherlock as they were both shoved in a darkened corner and the taller detective hid the both of them. John dared not make a sound as he watched the face of the vampire turn lethal and eyes narrowed, looking off to the side. He followed his gaze and saw, not too far away, was a man. 

“Stay put, stay quiet.” The detective said in a firm voice.

Before John could fully comprehend what was happening Sherlock was gone in a fell flash. All he could hear next was the gurgling choked out groan that echoed within the concrete walls. Then silence. Focusing more at where the intruder had once been, stood Sherlock. His hand, that could bring out the pleasant tunes of any ethereal instrument, was bringing out the sounds of death. He grasped the neck of the man so tightly his fingers dug into the skin that was quickly turning red from the lack of oxygen. The man was far from being scared of the detective before him, he was down right petrified of the demon that held his life from the brink of existence. 

It wasn’t the awe of strength that kept John watching the scene from afar, but pure unbridled shock of the display. He wanted to call out for Sherlock to stop, though no matter how much his mind screamed the word, his tongue caught in his throat. It too paralyzed. His legs twitched at the urge to run over and defuse the situation however, they too was anchored to the ground. All military instinct had flown out the window.

The sickening crunch of the man’s esophagus that came next made John’s hair stand on end. Sherlock’s fingers pressed in deeper taking a firmer hold and with a sudden jerk, ripped out the man’s throat with his bare hand. Blood poured and flew out of the man’s neck as though a bomb had exploded from inside, splattering whatever laid in its wake. Sherlock released his grasp on the man’s body and, like a finality of a theatrical performance, it fell to its closed curtain. 

With baited breath the doctor dared not move or even speak with the cold act of murder still hanging fresh in the air. He had feeling if he did he would set off the vampire and he would strike again. The next target being him. His eyes were glued on Sherlock’s form as the vampire tossed aside the man’s flesh he had clutched in his hand. Slowly, he turned to face John, the full horror of his actions painted on him in splash work on his clothes and across his face. 

They held each others eye contact for the briefest of seconds though it seemed like hours until Sherlock blinked and came to. He was the first to break their stare. Glancing down at his ruined clothes he brought his blooded hand up to his field of vision. At first he looked confused then his features changed to intrigued. Though it didn’t last long. It must have been the smell of blood that had his mind scrambling in panic to fight off his body’s natural function and that was to feed upon his victim. His eyes shot back to John.

“Go home John.” 

John had heard his command but his body simply refused to obey. He knew he needed to leave. 

“John. Listen to me! Move! Go home!” Sherlock urged more strongly.

This time his stone like legs finally gave way and began to function again. He made a sprint for the staircase and didn’t bother looking back. All he knew was that he had to get away from Sherlock. Far as possible. 

John all but ran up the stairs, taking two in stride if he could. What he had just witnessed was beyond anything his dreams could muster up. The gore, the brutality, the fact it had even happened was throwing him for a loop. He had long since accepted that Sherlock meant him no harm his mind even dismissing the possibility that he would. Sometimes even forgetting he was a vampire at all. He just didn’t express it often. Sure he moved with uncanny swiftness now and again, never touched a bite of real food, or seemed to never go to bed, but John had over looked it. Been naive in his ways of thinking. Let his guard slip.

He reached the flat and all but fell into his chair. He was out of breath and the muscles in his thighs and calves were burning. He had ran. Ran away from a murder. One that he didn’t anticipate at all. 

The air shifted in the room and became heavier and a sudden feeling that he was not alone came like a tickle to the back of his mind. Black dress shoes caught his attention. Following the blood soaked trails upon trousers and dress shirt, John was met with the presence of Sherlock. He hadn’t heard him come in at all. His face no longer held any ill intent as it did before, but a more of a somber expression. At least he looked more aware and in control. 

“Are you alright?” 

Sherlock’s brows bunched together at the absurdity of John’s words.

“Am I alright? It is _I_ who should be asking _you_ that question.”

“I’ve seen worse.” John admitted. “What happened? Why did you attack that man?”

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief.

“Has your short time out of the army dulled your senses or did you not observe? He was planning to attack you! There was a knife in his coat pocket. And if I hadn’t been following behind, you would be the one dead, not him.”

It didn’t occur to him that Sherlock’s attack had been deliberate and not an act of crazed violence. Or even blood lust for that matter. He had came in to rescue him.

“Wait…he was the suspect wasn’t he?” John’s brows shot up. “The one you were waiting for?” 

The detective remained quiet. His silence speaking volumes.

“Jesus.” John said under his breath.

“What did you expect?!”

“I wasn’t expecting you to kill the suspect that was wanted for arrest! What on earth are you going to tell the Yard?”

“There will be nothing to tell. It will be a dead end case. Unsolved. Surprisingly, Lestrade will be very easy to convince.”

“Convince? Convince him of what?!” 

“It doesn’t matter anymore. The upmost priority at this time is that you are safe.”

Sherlock left the sitting room and headed straight towards the bathroom, trudging off his soiled clothes as he went. John was left wondering what cryptic answer the detective had meant this time. It was obvious to him that apparently Sherlock was going to cook up some story about how their suspect was now dead, of course dropping off the fact he was the one who had killed him. But what was he going to tell them? That he was murdered in cold blood? Let the Yard run around in circles after some imaginary killer that lead to nowhere except in the minds of both Sherlock and John? 

This had to be what Mycroft had mentioned. The mess. He knew Sherlock had saved his life, but things had gotten messy and he exposed his true self in front of another mere mortal. And for all actions come consequences. As such, a life was extinguished to let another’s burn.

“Sherlock?” John rose from his chair and followed him. “When you said the case would be unsolved you mean that you got rid of him, right? What did you do with the body?”

“Its in a undisclosed location. The less you know the better. You may have bared witness to my protruding evilness in an act of violence, but I will not have you be an accomplice to me by helping me be rid of the evidence.”

John heeded Sherlock’s words. Not only had he rescued him, but he had taken the liberty to clean up afterwards so neither of them would be linked to the crime. A practice, John was sure, he had perfected since his change. Constantly covering his tracks to make sure he was never found.

“Thank you.” John’s words came out solemnly.

Sherlock’s demeanor changed again. Despite looking like something out of a horror movie with blood all over him his face held a softer expression. Not out of weariness for his earlier actions, but something akin to compassion.

“Be more careful next time. Others have not been as fortunate as you. If…something had happened…I do not think I could have forgiven myself.”

The vampire closed the door of the bathroom softly, ending unspoken words and meanings.

John viewed back on what Sherlock had said. The case leading up to his change had cost a life. If he could bet any amount of money he would change his theory and say that it wasn’t Sherlock’s own life, but another’s. One that was close to him. One he couldn’t save. One he would kill for to avenge their death. The question now was, who?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the failed stake out John learns more of Sherlock's vampire qualities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the small absence. Work has been crazy and I am still trying to get over the side effects of the second dose of the Covid vaccine. It truly kicked my butt. But I'm on the road to feeling better.
> 
> Your Dearly Demented Author

A quiet night in was something John definitely needed. From the failed stake out attempt days prior the dust had yet to settle between him and the detective. Whether it was the fact that the suspect was now disposed of in a nameless grave or that Sherlock had caused said death; he didn’t know what disturbed him more. He understood the vampire’s reasoning, truly he did, and for that he was grateful, but he never expected the situation to blow up so quickly. Since then he felt cautious around Sherlock when he knew he didn’t need to.

Sherlock seemed to sense this conflict within John. He had not taken on any more cases for the time being. Opting as well to stay in and work on more menial tasks. But in their quiet day to day interactions he had taken the doctor’s well being into factor. He made sure not to startle him while he was around or move too fast for his eye to see. Anything and every action he did was carefully calculated so he did not bring John stress or ill feeling. He simply had to give him time. 

He felt no remorse or regret in what he had done. It was as he had told John in truth, if anything had happened…no. He didn’t want to give the thought life. He had been too late once before and he vowed to never be again. 

Sherlock shook the dark thoughts out if his mind and peered from the kitchen over to John who had taken refuge in his chair and “vegging out”, as he had put it, in front of the television. He never before understood the metaphor until he studied him now. John’s eyes appeared glossed over, unfocused, staring into an unknown void that only he could see. His form was slouched to the side taking no resemblance of actual sitting. And here he thought he was doing “lifeless” in all literal sense and John was doing it better than he was.

“What’s buzzing around in your mind tonight? I know you are only half interested in the television as its been on that preposterous show with the doctor that flies around in the box. Also seventy percent of your focus has been on my book shelf and not even engrossed in that electronic contraption.” Sherlock’s voice brought John out of his own thoughts.

His attention now settled on Sherlock who met his eye with reciprocation. No particular emotion projected from his features as he waited for him to answer his question.

“Just wondering about some things. About you.” John said as he shifted in his chair sitting up straighter. 

“They must be at the very fore front of your brain. What is it?”

John’s mind pondered for a moment. He had been keeping a mental list of what he had seen with his own two eyes regarding the vampire’s powers, so to speak. This is what he knew: Sherlock was remarkably fast, exceedingly strong, could stand sunlight, and from what he could assume never slept. But he was always wondering what otherworldly mannerisms he possessed.

“Your abilities. What exactly can you do? I know there are hundreds of myths and legends about vampires, but what exactly is the truth? At least for you.”

Sherlock weighed the words he had spoken and listened to them again in his mind like a tape recording. He knew this conversation would happen at some point. He gave a brief look down to the scorched sheep’s stomach in the basin. His project would have to wait another time. He wasn’t really getting anywhere anyway.

“I see. No doubt your curiosity comes from recent events. And rightly so. Perhaps I should have disclosed certain qualities of mine when you first moved in.” Sherlock turned off his blow torch.

“It would’ve helped.”

“An error on my part.” Next came the detective’s goggles as he tossed them on the table. “But there is not much to tell. Most of what you have seen is the extent of my…problem.” 

John was slightly taken aback. First off that this talk was really going to happen and secondly that Sherlock’s vampirism was so…dull. In some ways he was relieved, yet in an odd sense, disappointed. Maybe his thoughts about it all had been too big and too broad. Overshadowing the real picture which that was that, he was ordinary. But his mind still didn't comprehend it all. He needed details.

“But how does it all work? How do you walk around in broad daylight?” John asked as he switched off the television now fully invested in the conversation.

“First off my being able to walk in sunlight is limited to be honest. The more sated in blood I am I can be fully functional and can move freely in it. However, the longer I go without, the more susceptible I am to sunburn. In those instances I have to go out by the cover of night. I am not sure if there is a physical reason for this or even supernatural. The rest you have observed for your own eyes.”

“Do you ever sleep?” The doctor prompted on.

“Sleep is not such a trivial thing when one does not need it so often. A practice I often did even when I was alive. It is not a priority of mine.”

“What else?”

Sherlock’s gaze drifted off as he thought for a moment.

“My sight is better in the dark than when I was living. As well as my hearing. That’s about it.”

“ _It?”_

John was dumfounded. So, he was just an undead man that barely slept and drank blood for his daily diet.

“Yes.”

“You mean no mind controlling? Powers of seduction to lure victims to their impending doom? Climb up walls, aversions to crosses, allergic to garlic, sleep in a coffin or…change into a bat?” John spouted off.

Sherlock’s face twisted in disgust at John. He knew the doctor had a morbid interest deep down in his physical aspects of being a vampire. Though there were times he wondered if he dwelled too much on the topic. 

“Dear God, what ludicrous notions! No, I have none of those traits. At least none that I have ever exhibited.”

“Never exhibited or never tried? Or won’t say?”

“It is bad enough that I am the way that I am. I would like to appear as normal as possible.”

John’s face cracked into a smile.

“Normal? I think you killed that idea on the night you brought me here.”

“Good Lord.” Sherlock sighed “Are you going to continue to hold that above my head?”

“You picked me up off the street to be your flatmate. How is any of _that_ normal?”

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side this time not in scrutiny, but in consideration. As John had put it he did, technically, kidnap him. He could see how that may come across as a bit not good when trying to persuade someone in becoming their flatmate. Especially since he was now living with a vampire. But John continued to solider on. Taking each new day with him in tow and now even eager to go on cases with him. He would get through this. They both would.

“Are you having any objections?” Sherlock questioned.

“No.”

“Good.” He smirked. “Tea?”

John agreed to his offer and Sherlock started preparing the kettle. The miasmic air that had once been ghosting between them was starting to clear. It was a break through. Communication. If they wanted this arrangement to work, wanted living together to work, they were both going to have to come to a mutual understanding of one another.

“You know I don’t even remember seeing you. On the street that night. I don’t remember you bringing me here either. How _did_ you do it?”

Even turned away from him, John could see Sherlock’s back instantly stiffen and he set down the mug with a little more force than what he meant to. As though the question itself had brought a horrible thought to him.

“You were tired after your shift. Of course you don’t remember.” Sherlock hurried with a response barely making a glance over his shoulder.

John had learned by now, very quickly in fact, when Sherlock made these short biting statements he was trying to hide something. 

“Sherlock what are you not telling me?” John pressed.

“There’s nothing to tell. Its all irrelevant.” Sherlock began to busy himself again. Anything to occupy, even deter John off the course in the new strain of conversation.

“It’s relevant to me.” John leaned forward in his chair to get a better look at the detective. “Are…are you embarrassed?”

“I am _not_ embarrassed.” Sherlock flustered.

“Yes you are. You’re practically blushing!”

“I highly doubt that since I am incapable of doing such a thing!”

“Then how did you do it?”

The detective only answered in silence.

“Did you knock me out?”

Silence once more.

“You sure you can’t brainwash people?”

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air in exasperation.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, I kissed you! Does that satisfy you?!”

John blinked. Then blinked again. Had he heard him right? Surely not. He must’ve been imagining the words that had just come out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“You… _kissed me?”_ John said slowly.

“I’m not repeating myself.” Sherlock shook his head and prepared John’s cup of tea.

“Wait, then how do I not remember that either?”

“Its…my breath.”

“Your breath?”

Sherlock handed John the mug and sat in his own grey chair. He had hoped that this subject would never come up. That John would continue on to believe that he had simply snatched him up, blacked out, whatever story he had told himself. John was smarter than that though. Smarter than he gave him credit for. He saw it in his eyes that night when he had brought him home. All the gears turning and falling into place as he tried to take his pulse. The way he looked at his watch and his brows creased together in confusion, not from the lack of Sherlock’s physical norms, but from realizing what time it was. John’s eyes had ever so slightly looked away as he thought about it, ignoring the task at hand. Sherlock had thought he had derailed John’s way of thinking then. Obviously not.

“There are chemical properties in my breath that, when in close proximity to me, releases a soporific stupor.” Sherlock began. “One that I have researched myself and the only thing I can compare it too is the drug scopolamine. Commonly known as ‘The Devil’s Breath’. Within mere minutes the victim is under its effect with their free will eliminated and memory wiped clean of any incident. It is odorless and tasteless. You fell under my spell quite easily, John. I told you to sleep and you did. After that I brought you here. But its effects wear off soon and usually people only have a mild headache in the end. It’s the closet thing to mind control, as you put it, though I would say its more like an art of persuasion.”

“Then how have I not been under its influence since then? Or have I been and just not realized it? I’m around you all the time.”

“I believe you do recall from your physical examination of me that I was not breathing. I wanted you to be completely sober while you diagnosed me. The only air I breathe is to speak or to smell. Otherwise I have no use for oxygen since I am dead. Besides for my attributes to be…successful…so to speak, I would have to be right upon you. I would say you are relatively safe in my presence.”

John took a sip of his tea as he divulged this new information.

“Wait…was that why I didn’t move? When we were in the parking garage?”

“You may have caught a slight inhalation of it. Otherwise you were perfectly conscious.”

“Right.” 

Another blanket of silence fell between them. Sherlock assumed it had to do with the confession he had just told John, one he really hoped he wouldn’t have to tell. Not only had he been a captor of his flatmate but he had also played the part of violation. But how else was he to bring John back to the flat with little to no harm? Even with John’s proposed scenario when they first met, talking to him and simply asking him to be his flatmate, he highly doubted he would’ve came along with him. He could tell John was a man of reason and action and he would’ve said no in an instant. Guilt began to creep up on Sherlock’s mind as he watched the doctor drink his tea.

“Looking back on my behavior now, I see I may have overstepped my bounds…and yours. I do hope you do not hold it against me. Bringing you here and altering your life. It was never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable.’’

John set down his mug on the table beside him.

“If that’s as close to an apology as I’ll ever get, then I’ll take it.” He paused for a moment. “But I don’t regret it. I’ll admit I was bloody terrified that night. I didn’t know if I was going to live or die. But after the war I was living such a mundane life. And then I realized that was killing me more than this was. And in the end I gained a friend.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed in confusion. That wasn’t what he had meant at all. But…friend? He considered him a friend? It had been so long since he had heard that term of endearment that he had forgotten what it felt like to be called a friend. The solemn word gave an ache to his chest, if only he could truly feel that. Feeling how it made the heart quicken, heat to rise in the body, and the dusting of warmth across his cheeks. Oddly in this circumstance he was glad he was dead so not to easily show his true emotion. 

“Oh. I meant..I thought that you would be…the kiss.”

“Put off by a kiss I can’t remember?” John asked for the detective. “Not really. Not unless…you were? I mean that must’ve been a taboo thing in your time.”

“No! No. I mean yes.” Sherlock’s words stumbled again. “What I mean to say is that it was something not socially acceptable, but I was not…put off. It was…”

Lord, how on earth did he put such a thing into words?! The mere thought that John was not perturbed my his violating act was one thing, but he had turned the tables. John was the one acting as though _he_ may have offended _him_! But how could he tell him? How could he say he actually enjoyed it? Even when John had no recollection of it. If he only knew how it made him feel that night. Like kissing a long lost lover with lips so soft…

“Oi! What’s all this then? Why does my kitchen smell like burnt haggis?” Mrs. Hudson cut off Sherlock’s wondering daydreaming mind with a shrill of her voice. Probably for the best anyway. Better off to keep his thoughts in check than to say something out of line in front of John. Least of all Mrs. Hudson.

“ _My_ kitchen.” Sherlock corrected. “And it’s an experiment! Don’t touch it!”

Mrs. Hudson gave a disgusted look to the contents of the basin sitting on the kitchen table.

“If I’m the one to clean it I can bloody well call it my kitchen, young man. I’m your landlady…”

“Not the housekeeper.” Sherlock and John said in unison and smiled at one another.

“Good. At least you know better. I expect this to be cleaned up. And open a window for goodness sake!” Mrs. Hudson flitted through the kitchen and into the sitting room, cracking open a window. No doubt hoping the air from the outside would filter through the smell lingering in the flat. As soon as she was done playing mother hen she made her way back down the stairs.

John cleared his throat, fully making sure Sherlock hadn’t forgotten the talk they were just having by getting his attention once more.

“As I was saying before hand. I still have questions. Maybe just one more.”

“Yes?”

“If you’re not the typical vampire and the myths hardly apply to you, then do you have…you know.”

“If it’s reading minds, no John, I can not. And no I do not know.”

“Oh come on.” John pointed near his mouth “You know.”

“On whether or not I have…I see. Well, I think you can thank your over obsession with my condition and say yes. And before you ask, no, I’m not showing you my deformed canines.”

John let out a laugh.

“Deformed canines. Fangs, Sherlock. You can say fangs.”

“Shut up and drink your tea.”


End file.
